Chapter 7: Between Shadows
Dexter's photography studio occupies a cramped space above Golden Dragon Chinese Restaurant, the scent of garlic and five-spice permanently embedded in the walls. What should be his refuge has become his prison—a stage set where he performs normalcy for mundane clients while developing photographs that document impossible truths.
Engagement shoot at nine AM. Meeting with Magnus Bane at three PM. Two worlds, two versions of myself, and the growing certainty that I can't maintain both indefinitely.
The morning's clients arrive punctually—Sarah and Michael, young professionals planning a spring wedding, radiating the kind of optimism that comes from believing love conquers all complications. They have no idea their photographer can hear their synchronized heartbeats, smell the nervous sweat beneath expensive cologne, see micro-expressions that reveal doubts neither will voice.
"So we're thinking outdoor shots," Sarah explains, settling into the posing chair while Michael fidgets with his tie. "Something natural, spontaneous. We want people to see how happy we are."
Happy. Right. Except Michael's pulse spikes every time she mentions the wedding, and Sarah's smile doesn't reach her eyes when she looks at the ring. Their scents tell stories of separate apartments, different schedules, growing apart disguised as growing together.
Dexter raises his camera, adjusting settings with professional precision while his enhanced vampire senses catalog details no mundane photographer should perceive. Through the viewfinder, their faces reveal the truth beneath performance—Michael's barely-concealed panic, Sarah's desperate hope that marriage will fix what's already broken.
"Love is a battlefield, and marriage is the boss level—SMILE FOR THE CAMERA OF DOOM!"
The words explode from his throat before he can stop them, his curse transforming relationship advice into apparent madness. Sarah blinks in confusion while Michael laughs nervously, both of them clearly wondering if their photographer is having some kind of breakdown.
"Sorry," Dexter manages, tasting copper as the curse extracts its price. "I meant... love is beautiful, and marriage is the next adventure. Let's capture that."
Smooth recovery. Except now they think I'm either crazy or trying too hard to be quirky. Better than them thinking I can literally smell their relationship problems.
His assistant—Jenny, art school dropout who needs the work—shoots him a concerned look from behind the lighting equipment. She's been with him for six months, long enough to notice his recent odd behavior but not long enough to ask uncomfortable questions.
The shoot proceeds with forced normalcy until movement outside catches Dexter's attention. Through the window, something that looks human but moves wrong slinks between parked cars. A minor demon, probably tracking supernatural scents in the area, drawn by the residual vampire energy that clings to his skin like cologne.
Choice time. Maintain cover and let a demon wander Brooklyn in broad daylight, or break character to handle a threat that might not actually threaten anyone.
The demon passes by without incident, disappearing into the maze of side streets and alleys that honeycomb the borough. Dexter makes his choice—he keeps photographing, maintains his mundane mask, prioritizes his cover over potential danger.
Sixty-eight percent. That's what the system calculated for mundane life preservation. I'm losing myself piece by piece, choosing performance over principle, safety over responsibility.
[SPECIES ENERGY: VITALITY 85/100]
[RAPHAEL QUEST PROGRESS: 40%]
[WARNING: MULTIPLE FACTION ATTENTION MAY COMPLICATE CONTRACTS]
The engagement shoot ends with forced smiles and scheduled follow-ups. Sarah and Michael leave with their deposit paid and their problems unresolved, carrying photographs that will capture a happiness neither currently feels. Dexter watches them go while cleaning his equipment, wondering if love really can conquer all or if it just makes the inevitable failure hurt more.
Three hours until I meet Magnus Bane at The Hunter's Moon. Three hours to prepare for a conversation that could expose everything or open doors I didn't know existed.
POV: Magnus Bane
The Hunter's Moon reeks of werewolf territory—leather and pack musk, moon-touched power, and the barely controlled violence that comes from predators pretending to be civilized. Magnus enters the bar like he owns it, which technically he doesn't, but eight centuries of accumulated power and influence tend to make ownership a flexible concept.
Luke Garroway's establishment. Former Shadowhunter turned pack leader, one of the few werewolves intelligent enough to understand that cooperation serves survival better than isolation. Also one of the few supernatural beings in New York who isn't actively suspicious of Magnus's motives.
The photographer arrives precisely on time, moving through the crowded bar with careful precision. Werewolves track his movement with predatory interest—not because he threatens them, but because he smells wrong. Vampire scent on human flesh, borrowed power that shouldn't exist, the kind of contradiction that makes pack instincts scream warnings.
"Dexter," Magnus calls out, gesturing to a corner booth where privacy wards shimmer invisibly around the table. "Punctual. I appreciate that in a mysterious anomaly."
The younger man settles into the booth with movements that carry subtle inhuman grace—vampire reflexes overlaying human coordination, creating a hybrid fluidity that's fascinating to observe. His heterochromatic eyes scan exits automatically, cataloging threats with practiced paranoia.
"Thank you for meeting me," Dexter says, voice carefully neutral. "Though I'm not sure what we have to discuss."
Lies wrapped in politeness. He knows exactly why he's here, just as he knew exactly where to find me despite my location wards. The question is whether his knowledge comes from supernatural sources or something else entirely.
"I think," Magnus says, ordering drinks with a gesture that makes bottles pour themselves, "we should discuss the fact that you're a Bond Walker. And before you ask, yes, I know what that means."
Dexter's pulse spikes, pupils dilating slightly as fight-or-flight reflexes engage. But he doesn't flee, doesn't deny, doesn't even ask how Magnus knows. Instead, he leans back in the booth and asks the one question that matters.
"How many others have you met?"
"Three," Magnus replies honestly. "Over eight centuries. All dead within five years of manifesting their abilities. All torn apart by the contradictions they carried, either literally or metaphorically."
Truth. The last Bond Walker Magnus encountered was in 1847, during the Irish famine. That one had contracted with fae and warlocks, using borrowed power to save lives until the effort killed him. Noble death, terrible waste, exactly the kind of heroic tragedy these anomalies seem drawn to.
"Cheerful," Dexter observes, sipping his drink without tasting it. "Any particular reason you wanted to share that encouraging information?"
"Because," Magnus continues, studying the younger man's face for micro-expressions, "you're different. The others were chosen by circumstances, thrust into supernatural politics through accident or desperation. You actively sought out vampire contracts. Planned it. That suggests either suicidal tendencies or knowledge you shouldn't possess."
Dexter's attempt to respond emerges as scrambled nonsense: "The crystal ball is cloudy with a chance of meatballs—SOME THINGS CAN'T BE EXPLAINED!"
Fascinating. He's cursed, possibly geas-bound, definitely unable to share certain types of information directly. But the frustration in his voice is genuine—he wants to explain but literally cannot.
"The Clave tolerates Downworlders," Magnus says quietly, leaning forward to ensure their conversation remains private, "but they'll never tolerate something that blurs the lines between species. You're walking a very dangerous path."
"I know," Dexter replies, the words emerging clearly because they're honest assessment rather than restricted information. "But sometimes dangerous paths are the only ones that lead where you need to go."
Determination wrapped in resignation. He knows he's probably going to die, accepts it as the price of whatever he's trying to accomplish. The question is what goal justifies that level of sacrifice.
Before Magnus can probe deeper, Luke Garroway approaches their table—six feet of controlled werewolf authority, wearing a police lieutenant's casual clothes but carrying himself like the alpha he's become. His knowing look settles on Dexter with uncomfortable intensity.
"The photographer," Luke says without preamble. "The one who's been appearing in incident reports. Clary mentioned you."
"All good things, I hope," Dexter replies, but his tension is visible in the way his fingers drum against the table.
"She said you saved Simon's life. That counts for something in my book." Luke's expression softens slightly. "But she also said you speak in riddles and know things you shouldn't know. That makes me curious."
And here we see the real reason Magnus chose this location. Not just to test Dexter's vampire contract in werewolf territory, but to introduce him to Luke Garroway. The former Shadowhunter who understands what it means to walk between worlds.
POV: Dexter Hale
Luke Garroway. Clary's father figure, pack leader, the werewolf cop who bridges mundane and supernatural law enforcement. In the show, he was wise, protective, the steady anchor that kept everyone grounded when reality became too strange to process.
Here, studying me with those knowing eyes, he's dangerous in ways the show never captured.
"I try to help when I can," Dexter says carefully, aware that every word is being weighed for meaning and motive. "Sometimes that means being in the right place at the right time."
"And sometimes," Luke observes, settling into the booth without invitation, "that means having information sources most people don't possess."
The conversation is interrupted when a young woman enters the bar, moves through the crowd with purpose, and heads directly for their table. Not supernatural—Dexter's enhanced senses would detect inhuman nature immediately—but definitely not ordinary either. Something about her movements suggests training, discipline, the kind of focus that comes from professional investigation.
"Dexter Hale," she says without preamble, producing a badge that identifies her as Aria Ashdown, research assistant to the Clave. "I'd like a word."
Shit. Clave investigation, which means official attention, which means my cover is blown six ways from Sunday. Magnus is watching this unfold with entertained interest, Luke is calculating whether to intervene, and I'm sitting here with vampire abilities and knowledge I can't explain to people who have the authority to make me disappear.
"I'm just having drinks with friends," Dexter replies, hoping his voice sounds more casual than he feels. "Perhaps we could schedule an appointment through proper channels?"
"Your name appears in three separate incident reports over the past two weeks," Aria continues, apparently immune to deflection. "Supernatural events. Demon attacks. Vampire politics. Witness statements describe your 'lucky timing' and 'unusual knowledge' in terms that suggest more than coincidence."
She produces a tablet, displaying photographs and documents that chronicle his recent activities with uncomfortable precision. The hotel fire where Clary lost her mother. The poetry reading where Simon was targeted. Multiple supernatural incidents where a mundane photographer somehow knew to be present with a camera.
"I'm just a photographer who's really good at being in wrong places—NOTHING TO SEE HERE!"
The curse scrambles his attempt at denial, making him sound guilty and mentally unstable simultaneously. Aria's eyes narrow, clearly recognizing evasion when she hears it.
"You documented demon ichor at the Fray apartment fire," she says quietly. "Your photographs show evidence that mundane investigators missed. That level of supernatural awareness suggests either extensive training or Downworlder connections."
She knows. Not everything, but enough to make connections between impossible events and the mundane photographer who keeps witnessing them. The question is whether she's fishing for evidence or already has enough to act.
Magnus intervenes before the conversation can escalate further. "Ms. Ashdown, isn't it? Lydia's research assistant. Tell me, what exactly are you researching?"
"Anomalies," Aria replies, not backing down despite facing a High Warlock whose reputation spans centuries. "Patterns that don't fit established supernatural behavior. Mundanes who survive encounters that should kill them. People who know things they shouldn't know."
She's investigating Bond Walkers without knowing the term exists. Looking for patterns in Clave records that might reveal others like me, building cases through careful documentation of impossible events.
"Fascinating work," Magnus says diplomatically. "Though I should mention that some anomalies are protected under Accords provisions. Downworlder contracts, for instance, create gray areas in Clave jurisdiction."
It's a warning disguised as casual conversation—back off or face political complications. But Aria doesn't retreat. Instead, she hands Dexter a business card with the kind of deliberate precision that suggests this was always her primary objective.
"When you're ready to explain what you really are," she says quietly, "call me. The Clave prefers cooperation to investigation, but we have resources for both approaches."
Threat and offer combined into one elegant package. Work with us voluntarily, or we'll find other ways to get answers. But there's something else in her expression—genuine curiosity, professional respect for someone who saves lives regardless of the personal cost.
She leaves as abruptly as she arrived, disappearing into the crowd with practiced efficiency. Luke watches her go, then turns to Dexter with renewed interest.
"The Clave doesn't usually investigate mundanes this thoroughly," he observes. "You must have made quite an impression."
"I try to be memorable," Dexter replies, pocketing the business card despite knowing it probably means signing his own death warrant.
Twenty-four hours ago, my biggest concern was maintaining vampire contracts without losing my humanity. Now I have Magnus Bane studying me like a fascinating specimen, Luke Garroway adding me to his list of people worth watching, and Clave investigators building files on my impossible existence.
The spaces between worlds are getting smaller, and I'm running out of places to hide.
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