Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns all the rights to The Mortal Instruments and it's characters. I am merely a fan that has an overactive imagination.
The circular room was lit brightly, causing the young redhead to close her eyes and rub the right side of her temples in a circular motion with two of her fingers. Her figure was tense; her shoulders slumped forward as if she was anticipating the pain in her head to increase. She inhaled sharply and leaned back against the cushioned chair, opening one eye to peek at the glowing red number in front of her.
73.
She looked down at her ticket number.
85.
She sighed softly and closed her eyes again, focusing on her breathing and the back of her eyelids. She pictured the room in her mind, a soft peach carpet covering the floor, the hum of students pacing outside the waiting room of the Dean's office, the soft clicking of keys. Distract yourself, she thought. After all, migraines were not a foreign element in her life. She had been dealing with splitting headaches for almost 8 years, her first one starting in her first years of high school. Through medication given to her by her uncle's friend, a Naturopathy Practitioner (or in her opinion, a witch doctor), coupled with several different types of teas and a proper sleeping habit, the migraines became manageable. But now, two months away from graduating with a Bachelor of Arts Degree at Churchill College in Seattle, proper sleeping and eating habits were not easy to come by, which meant more frequent battles with migraines.
The redhead opened her eyes, feeling the migraine subside a little, and reached into her backpack on the floor in front of her. She rummaged around for the small plastic bottle labeled, "Aspirin," and her water bottle. Opening the white bottle, she shook out two dark blue capsules. She glanced around, but she saw that the waiting room was empty, save for the receptionist in the far right corner who was furiously typing away. She flipped the lid of her water bottle, downed the two pills quickly and shoved the elements in her bag, almost trying to hide the evidence of taking painkillers. She didn't want anyone to notice that that the pills that were in the bottle were actually not aspirin at all. How many brands of aspirin are dark blue? These "migraine pills," were a homemade remedy from this "witch doctor" that swore by an angel that these would help her manage her migraines over time. To the witch doctor's credit, they did make the pain go away, and made it much easier to deal with everyday life activities, provided she took them as soon as she felt symptoms. But as of recent, they only dulled the pain, but she could always feel something slightly pulsing in her head. But it was better than nothing. She closed her eyes, hoping that the effect of the pills would somehow accelerate, but her meditation was interrupted by a voice.
"85? Excuse me, miss? Aren't you number 85?" The receptionist, all of a sudden was beside her, tapping her shoulder. The redhead opened her eyes suddenly. "Follow me. The Dean will see you."
Feeling the migraine start to fade, the redhead nodded, grabbed her backpack off the floor and followed the receptionist past her desk. Following the clicking of her high heels, she realized how incredibly underdressed she was. She was seeing The Dean of the Arts Faculty; surely she could have thrown something more put together, instead of jeans, runners and a long sleeved sweater? Her heart then began to hammer. Earlier that week, she received an email saying that The Dean wanted to see her, but nothing more. There couldn't be anything wrong with her academic records; she had amazing standings in all of her classes. She was so lost in her thoughts, she almost ran into the receptionist as they stopped at double doors made of out mahogany.
She was still going to graduate. Right?
The receptionist opened both the doors to a large square room. They were greeted with a man, dressed in a tweed blazer and a dark blue collared shirt, scribbling something down on his desk. He sat behind a polished, auburn desk near the back wall, and was flanked by two impressive bookshelves. He peered above his glasses, as if slightly annoyed by the disturbance. "Yes?" he asked, raising one eyebrow.
"Clarissa Fray, sir," the receptionist said in a bored tone, turning her body so Clary could be seen. She was easy to overlook, as she stood at barely 5 feet.
"Just Clary," the redhead said without missing a beat. She preferred her nickname, and corrected everyone almost instantly. "I mean, Clary, sir," she added quickly, a slight blush creeping in her cheeks.
The Dean's facial expression lit up; the hint of annoyance completely gone. "Clary! Ah, yes, yes, come inside, child," he beckoned, getting up from his desk. Clary stepped forward into his office and was overwhelmed by the amount of books that adorned the room. There were bookshelves against the walls to her left that held an assortment of books, all varying in subjects. And to the right of Clary, was a large map of the world that covered almost the entire wall. Underneath stood a sturdy table, with a record player and an expensive tea set that looked recently used. "Thank you, Nikki that will be all." The Dean dismissed the receptionist, and Nikki closed the door behind Clary, leaving her standing alone with The Dean. "Clary, child, have a seat!" He said enthusiastically.
Clary moved forward slowly, feeling a mixture of shyness and curiosity. She sat down in a plush leather chair in front of the Dean's desk, and placed her backpack on the marble floor. As she set her backpack down, she noticed that even the floor looked fancy; the off-white marble was decorated with gold flecks and patterns, which almost resembled symbols, which were just barely visible in the bright light. She sat up straight, noticing her migraine was gone, and stared into the eyes of The Dean of the Arts. I didn't know they get paid so well, she thought to herself.
"Hello, sir," she said softly. "You sent me an email?"
The man chuckled softly, wrinkles forming in the corner of his eyes and mouth. "My name is Hodge Starkweather, but you can just call me Hodge, dear." Clary relaxed, not even realizing how tense she was. She smiled and nodded. "Yes I did send you an email," he continued, intertwining his fingers on top of his papers on his desk, his gaze shifting to his open laptop on the corner of his desk. "I apologize that it was so vague. But it was of importance I spoke to you. Your graduation fast approaching but there is something I would like you consider." Clary was no longer apprehensive, but only curious.
"Consider? I'm not sure I understand," she said, biting her bottom lip slightly. "Is there something wrong with my records academically? Do I not have enough credits? Do you think I need to do more?" Before she asked another question, the Dean raised his hand slightly and smiled. Clary closed her mouth.
"Not at all, child!" He said with amusement in his voice. "Your records are outstanding, which is precisely why I asked you to come see me." He saw the puzzled look on her face, and continued on. "You see, I keep a close watch on students who want to graduate with a degree in the Arts. Some students believe it is an easy way to obtain a degree and often don't see the hard work that needs to be put into these classes. They often think that the Arts program is an easy way to get their name on a piece of paper, and poof!" He made a waving motion with one hand. "Off they go into the world. And then," he paused slightly. "There are some students who excel so greatly, that I would be a fool not to recognize them. And one of those students, is you, Clary." His eyes shone with admiration, and Clary couldn't keep her gaze. Her eyes dropped down as she felt her cheeks redden.
"Oh sir – I mean, Mr. Starkweather. I don't know what to say," she said, feeling humbled and shy.
"Hodge, dear. Just call me Hodge, remember?" he said, the amusement still in his voice. "Now, only recently, I've decided to take another step further in helping these students in their future after they graduate. I know it is difficult to find a career after you leave the walls of post-secondary school, but I am here to help with that process, Clary." She looked up at Hodge at the sound of her name, and studied his face. He seemed to be sincere in helping her, but why is it she's never heard of this type of program before? As if reading her mind, Hodge continued. "I only founded this last semester, but it is only now I am able to put it into action." He leaned in closer to Clary, as if telling her a lifelong secret. "Clary, I will be frank. I want you to be part of a study that may not have any correlation with your previous classes. I want you to help me, personally, with a project that is dear to my heart. With your skills and your knowledge, you would be an asset to my team. It is clear you are smart and studious, but also, based on your extra curricular work, you are deeply vested in the world of mythology."
Clary stared at the man, her green eyes shining with curiosity and wonder and quickly recalled that she spent her free time in her childhood reading upon the likes of the Greek gods and goddesses and wondered if there were invisible beings destined to protect – and sometimes harm – mankind.
Hodge continued, his gaze never faltering. "I am wondering if you could help me in researching a topic that has barely been touched upon. We are currently studying about a certain mythology and an unknown human race that has never been brought to the attention of scientists and scholars alike. I guarantee you, that if you are able to help me find evidence or links about these people and their stories, it will put Churchill College at the top of all schools. And I promise, your name will be recognized across the nation." Hodge paused, as if waiting for her response.
Clary surveyed the room and glanced at the map to her right. She only noticed the markings and drawings on the different countries, and it dawned on her that Hodge was serious about the study. And seemed to be serious about the promises he made. She surveyed the room quickly. The hundreds of books and the world map was just the starting point in the long journey ahead of him. After all, bringing forth knowledge about a different type of culture – no, human race to the world, and asking it to be accepted was incredulous and almost an impossible task, but Clary was never the type to back down from a challenge – especially a challenge that could catapult her into finding a career. But before she could respond, she asked, "What type of mythology and hidden human race are you talking about?"
Hodge's smile grew wider. "Shadowhunters."