Chapter 9: Threads of Truth
Four AM. Dexter's studio breathes with the rhythm of a nocturnal creature—shadows pooling in corners where daylight never reaches, the scent of developing chemicals mixing with something metallic that might be blood or might be fear. Aria Ashdown sits cross-legged on his floor, research files arranged in chronological order around her like tarot cards revealing an impossible fortune.
She's been here for six hours. Waiting. Watching. Building cases through careful documentation while I bled onto photographs that shouldn't exist. The system interface hovers between us—invisible to her but screaming warnings about exposure risk, calculation matrices that reduce human trust to statistical probabilities.
[WARNING: EXPOSURE RISK CRITICAL]
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: MEMORY MODIFICATION OR ELIMINATION]
[ALTERNATIVE: TRUTH SHARING (RISK ASSESSMENT: UNKNOWN)]
Dexter studies Aria's face in the dim light—witch heritage written in the way shadows seem to bend around her, analytical mind dissecting supernatural contradictions with the patience of someone who grew up hearing impossible stories. She's dangerous because she's smart, because she sees patterns others miss, because she cares enough about truth to risk her career investigating anomalies that officially don't exist.
Partial truth. Better than complete lies with someone who's already seen too much.
"You want answers," he says, settling onto the floor across from her like they're children playing games that might kill them both. "I'll give you what I can."
"Downworlder contracts," Aria says without preamble, pointing to a photograph where his eyes flash amber. "You've formed supernatural bonds. That's why you move like them, fight like them, but still register as human to magical diagnostics."
She's done her homework. Researched bond mechanics through Clave archives, interviewed Shadowhunters about contracted humans, built theoretical frameworks to explain impossible observations.
"Vampires," Dexter confirms, the word emerging clearly because it's simple fact rather than future knowledge. "I have a contract with Raphael Santiago's clan. Borrowed abilities in exchange for services."
"What kind of services?"
"Intelligence. Photography. Being in the right place at the right time to document things that need documenting."
Truth wrapped in careful omission. The curse doesn't trigger because I'm not revealing temporal mechanics or transmigrator status, just describing existing relationships in mundane terms.
Aria nods slowly, her expression shifting from suspicion to professional fascination. "My grandmother used to tell stories about people like you. Humans who made bargains with supernatural forces, who borrowed power at the cost of their humanity."
"Your grandmother was a witch," Dexter guesses, watching recognition flicker across her features.
"Half-witch who married a Shadowhunter," Aria corrects. "Making me mundane-born but magically sensitive. I don't have powers, but I can sense supernatural phenomena. That's why Lydia hired me as a researcher—I notice patterns others miss."
Witch ancestry. That explains everything—her sensitivity to supernatural contradictions, her ability to track anomalies through bureaucratic records, the way she recognizes truth even when it's wrapped in impossibility.
"Why do you help them?" Aria asks, gesturing to the photographs of saved lives scattered around the room. "The vampires give you power, but you use it protecting people you barely know. What's your motivation?"
"With great power comes great responsibility and also great coffee bills—I CAN'T EXPLAIN MORE!"
The words explode from his throat, mangled by the curse into apparent madness. But instead of confusion or concern, Aria throws back her head and laughs—genuine delight mixed with intellectual curiosity.
"Prophet of Nonsense," she says, wiping tears from her eyes. "That's what I'm calling you. You speak in riddles that almost make sense, like prophecy filtered through a broken telephone."
She finds the curse amusing instead of disturbing. Treats it like a puzzle to solve rather than evidence of mental instability. That level of acceptance suggests she's encountered stranger things in her research.
"Partnership," Aria continues, pulling out a notebook and pen with the efficiency of someone who's been planning this conversation. "I'll help interpret your scrambled warnings if you share intelligence about Shadow World threats. Deal?"
The system should be objecting, should be calculating exposure risks and recommending elimination protocols. Instead, it remains silent, watching this development with what might be curiosity.
"How would that work?" Dexter asks, genuinely curious.
Aria flips to a fresh page, creating columns with clinical precision. "Speech pattern analysis. When you try to warn about vampires, what words do you use?"
"Sparkle squad," Dexter admits, remembering his attempts to warn Simon. "Glittery bloodsuckers. Sometimes just 'them.'"
"And danger?"
"Extra pepperoni on the apocalypse pizza. Doom with a side of fries. Kitchen of catastrophe."
Aria writes rapidly, building what she calls "The Warning Dictionary"—a cipher key for translating prophetic nonsense into actionable intelligence. Her analytical mind treats his curse like code to crack, finding patterns in chaos that even he hadn't recognized.
"Fascinating," she murmurs, comparing phrases across multiple incidents. "The metaphors are consistent within categories. Food references for danger, pop culture for supernatural species, spatial metaphors for locations. There's structure beneath the scrambling."
She's right. The curse doesn't randomize completely—it follows linguistic patterns, maintaining thematic coherence even while destroying literal meaning. If someone could learn to decode it...
[NEW FEATURE UNLOCKED: WARNING TRANSLATION PARTNER]
[ARIA ASHDOWN: 60% ACCURACY RATE FOR PROPHECY INTERPRETATION]
[SYSTEM NOTE: INFORMATION SHARING ACCEPTABLE WHEN INDIRECT]
The system interface updates with new functionality, displaying translation matrices that suggest his curse might be less absolute than he thought. If Aria can interpret scrambled warnings with sixty percent accuracy, that's better than the zero percent success rate he's managed alone.
"This could actually work," Dexter says, studying her translations with something approaching hope. "You could help people understand what I'm trying to tell them."
"In exchange for truth," Aria replies firmly. "No more evasions, no more deflections. If I'm going to risk my career helping you save lives, I need to know what I'm dealing with."
Before Dexter can respond, footsteps echo on the stairs outside his studio. Multiple people, moving with different rhythms—one hesitant and human, the other predatory and trained. Simon and Isabelle, he realizes with growing dread.
Simon followed Aria. He's been investigating me since the Hotel DuMort fight, trying to understand what I am without accepting that some questions don't have safe answers.
The door opens without knocking. Simon Lewis enters like a man walking into his own execution, eyes scanning the supernatural evidence scattered around the room with the hollow shock of someone processing impossible revelations. Isabelle Lightwood follows, hand resting on her whip with casual readiness for violence.
"Simon," Dexter says carefully, watching his friend's face cycle through confusion, fear, and something that might be betrayal. "What are you doing here?"
"I followed her," Simon replies, pointing at Aria with an accusatory gesture. "She's been investigating you, building files, asking questions. And I found this."
He produces Dexter's business card—the one he'd given Simon at the coffee shop, now annotated with notes in Simon's careful handwriting. Observations about impossible timing, supernatural encounters, the way Dexter always seems to know things he shouldn't know.
"You're not just some weird photographer," Simon continues, voice cracking with stress. "You're something else. Something dangerous. And everyone knows it except me."
He's processing trauma, watching his reality expand to include monsters and magic while the one person he thought he could trust keeps revealing new layers of deception.
"Simon, listen—" Dexter begins, but his friend interrupts.
"No, you listen. For once, just tell me the truth. What are you?"
"You'll understand everything soon when the moon makes you howl—WAIT NO, WRONG SPECIES!"
The words explode from Dexter's throat before he can stop them, his curse manglingp reassurance into apparent prophecy about Simon's future transformation. Both Simon and Aria freeze, staring at him with the kind of intensity that suggests they heard more truth than he intended to reveal.
Shit. I just implied knowledge of Simon's canonical fate—his transformation from mundane to vampire. But that hasn't happened yet, won't happen for weeks in any timeline. Unless I just accelerated it by revealing too much.
"Wrong species?" Aria repeats slowly, her analytical mind already working to decode the slip. "That implies you know what the right species would be."
Simon's face goes pale. "Are you saying I'm going to become something? Like you?"
"I'm saying nothing is predetermined," Dexter replies desperately, trying to walk back implications he can't unsay. "The future is fluid, changeable. Knowledge of possibilities doesn't equal knowledge of certainties."
Isabelle steps forward, her warrior instincts recognizing the scent of secrets that could destabilize everything. "What exactly is going on here?"
Four people who represent four different factions—mundane skeptic, witch-descended researcher, Shadowhunter warrior, and whatever I'm becoming. Each with different stakes, different loyalties, different levels of access to truth that could save or damn them all.
"Partnership," Aria says firmly, standing to face Isabelle with the authority of someone who works for the Clave even if she doesn't carry weapons. "Dexter has information about Shadow World threats. I'm helping him communicate that information effectively."
"And I'm apparently going to turn into some kind of monster," Simon adds with bitter humor. "Which explains why my best friend's life keeps exploding into supernatural chaos."
"You're not going to become a monster," Dexter says with all the conviction he can muster. "Not if I can prevent it."
Promise I can't keep. Future I can't guarantee. But hope is sometimes more powerful than prophecy, and Simon needs something to hold onto while his world reshapes itself around impossible truths.
Isabelle studies the group with calculating eyes, warrior mind processing tactical situations with trained efficiency. "The Institute needs to know about this. Contracts with Downworlders, prophetic abilities, civilian exposure to classified information."
"The Institute already knows what they need to know," Aria counters. "I file reports through proper channels. Official oversight is maintained."
Bureaucratic chess match between Clave authority and administrative discretion. Isabelle has the power to drag everyone back for interrogation, but Aria has the political connections to make that complicated.
The standoff breaks when Dexter's phone buzzes with an incoming text. Magnus Bane: "Clary remembers. The Cup is in the cards. Literally."
The Mortal Cup. Hidden in Dorothea's tarot deck, waiting to be discovered by someone who knows where to look. But first, events need to unfold differently than canon—Circle members will strike at Dot's shop, and this time I know it's coming.
"I have to go," Dexter says, gathering his photography equipment with practiced speed. "There's going to be an attack. People will die if I don't intervene."
"We'll come with you," Aria says immediately.
"No," Dexter replies firmly. "This is supernatural violence, trained fighters with weapons designed to kill things that shouldn't exist. You're researchers, not warriors."
"I'm a Shadowhunter," Isabelle points out, hand moving to her weapons with predatory grace. "Killing things that shouldn't exist is literally my job description."
She's right. And I need all the help I can get if I'm going to save Dot's life while multiple factions descend on her shop like wolves scenting blood.
"Fine," Dexter concedes. "But we do this my way. No heroics, no unnecessary risks. We save who we can and get out before the situation becomes impossible."
The group disperses with uneasy truces—Isabelle agrees to accompany him to the antique shop, Simon reluctantly returns to the Institute under Shadowhunter protection, and Aria stays to organize research files while monitoring communications.
Thirty minutes until Dot's canonical death. Thirty minutes to prevent a tragedy I've seen play out in another world, using borrowed power and impossible knowledge to change fate itself.
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