I hope you enjoy it! (No copyright intended, all characters belong to Cassandra Clare)

PILLARS OF SAND, CHAPTER ONE

'To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable
of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools. The way
to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!'
-Shakespeare (Macbeth)


"Are you sure you're ready for this Fairchild?" Simon smirked lopsidedly, and held out Clary's dark sea foam green tote bag in front of her. She took it hesitantly from his loose grasp and slung the thin strap over her thin left shoulder. Clary gulped down the staggering amount of anticipation that deemed to bubble in the pit of her stomach—threatening to bring up her late morning breakfast.

"As ready as I'll probably ever be." Clary lied and gave Simon a weak disheartening smile; no matter how much she wanted to be excited about her new assistant position at Herondale Magazine, she just couldn't seem to expel the thoughts and image flashes of her imminent failure, from her mind. She turned her head to the side to face the vintage golden mirror, which was hung up just shy of their apartment door. Her hair fell softy around her face, down her chest; waves and curls of fiery crimson stopping just shy of the top of her rib cage. Her skin was silken ivory—pale—but splattered with freckles. She was wearing a silky vibrant green blouse pressed perfectly underneath an ashy grey blazer, finished with dark black jeans and nude pumps. Yes, to anyone else she would appear cool, calm, collected and otherwise professional—but it was her deep emerald eyes that gave away her rather timorous attitude.

"Clary, you're going to be fine—you're going to do even better." Simon offered an encouraging smile and came to stand beside her, snaking his arm across her shoulders, hugging her tightly to his body. His glasses were mere seconds from falling off of the bridge of his nose—his outfit what typical Simon would usually wear: faded dark blue jeans, a graphic t-shirt, and mud caked white vans.

"Whatever you say, Lewis. I just... I've wanted this ever since—"

"—Ever since 8th grade when you picked up the magazine randomly from that little corner shop on fifth and browning. I know these things Clary. No need to remind me." He shook his head, dark brown hair swept across his forehead as he did so. "Now go. We don't want you to be late, do we?" Simon tilted his head to the door beside her. Clary sighed, and stared down the door for a moment, before reluctantly shrugging out of his grasp.

"Wish me luck!" Clary said and opened the waxy red front door haistly—slipping out of the apartment into the warm noon air. She made her way down the narrow grey stone flights of stairs on the outside of their apartment building, and out onto the streets which were littered and clustered by fast paced people; talking on cell phones, sipping steaming coffee, and smoking. Dark and rather thick puffs of pungent smoke wafted in the air all around her; stinging her eyes for a brief moment. She walked along the slate chipped sidewalk, passing the all to familiar Bazaar Café on her way to the underground subway station.

It was just as cluttered with people, pushed up against one another, as it had been out in the open of the streets up above. She hopped on to the metro that would take her directly to a small ped-way which would lead up and onto the street adjacent to her current destination. Her life changing destination that is. As the metro came to a stop and Clary rushed through the sea of people all around her, her heart pace picked up tenfold, puttering unevenly against her delicate rib bones; screaming with anxiety. The large corporate office of Herondale Magazine loomed in front of her as she burst out into the street. It was all hard angles and sharp lines; made of dark steel and harsh copper; the windows reflected even the faintest light.

She gulped loudly, and out of nervous habit, fiddled with the hem of her silk green top; while she hiked her bag higher upon her shoulder. "You can do this Fairchild. You can do this." Clary began to mutter as she crossed the busy New York street, which was littered with hundreds of fluorescent yellow cabs. The Herondale building seemed to get bigger and bigger the closer she got, quite literally scaring the shit out of her—for this was her first major job—but really how bad could it be?

She walked through the towering front all glass doors, with a rush of others who were dressed immaculately in sharp pin-stripe suits with shiny leather loafers. Many of the women had their hair pinned up in structured buns, pulled back by an abundance of pins, their clothes made of grey, dark grey, and light grey material as opposed to her vibrant green silk top—making Clary feel less than ordinary in regards to her situation. The inside of the building matched its exterior: Hard, sharp, daunting—giving off the initial perception that this was a place where you came to work hard, well and fast. She let her deep emerald eyes trail around the large foyer with its vaulted ceiling, pristine gold and black marbled floors, tall vibrant pots of scattered plants, and the long mahogany front desk situated directly in the middle of the chaos of business people.

Clary headed off in the direction of the front desk, passing a group of stick thin models with gaunt cheeks and flawless posture. A hand pressed somewhat greedily against her butt suddenly, pulling her from her objective phase of mind. She sharply turned around, her mind dripping with accusatory remarks, and to her surprise her gaze was met by the ample chest of a man—a man that practically slammed into her as she stopped. Clary stumbled backwards on her heels slightly, a gasp escaping her lips, but before she had the unfortunate chance of landing on the marble floor the man reached his hand out and clasped her tightly around her thin waist.

"That would have been a pretty nasty fall there." His voice was as smooth as creamy liquid, deep—but not close enough to reach a baritone tone—and yet at the same time, surprisingly intriguing. Once Clary was steadied, she glanced up and sucked in a harsh breath; her eyes widening. The man—whoever he was—had immaculate golden amber eyes, with specks of pale yellow around the pupil in light waves. His nose was perfectly arched; his eyebrows raised in a teasing sort of gesture; his lips thin, pink and soft looking—in Clary's initial opinion. He had an equally as golden, halo of curled hair around his head, cut perfectly just below his ears. And his skin was tan and smooth as milk and honey.

He was dressed in a structured light grey suit cuffed at the wrists with dark black links, paired with an off-white button up, underneath, and a deep red tie on to complete the outfit. "Miss, are you okay?" Clary snapped back to reality and begraded herself for starring at him so long. She had realized then that he had been talking to her for quite some time, while she mindlessly took her fill of his appearance.

"Yes," she shimmed out of his grasp around her waist, and smoothed down the front of her shirt. "You grabbed my butt." Clary pointed out accusingly, hating the fact that after she did so he got a stupid half smirk on his pretty face.

"It was inevitable sorry to tell you. With all these people swarming around us, pushing us together—" He gestured widely with his arms out stretched, pushing his ample chest forward slightly. He was tall, really tall, Clary realized, and quickly shook her head before she could lose herself in the image of this man once again.

"Typical. Trying to make up excuses for groping women, hey?" Clary folded her arms over her chest, and quirked her left eyebrow high on her forehead. To Clary's anger, the man copied her same eyebrow gesture with an equally as great quirk.

"In all honestly, miss, you didn't have much to grope." He shrugged his broad shoulders nonchalantly.

"So you were trying to grope me... And wait, did you just call my butt small?" Clary let her mouth fall partially open at the implication. Yes, she didn't have the biggest assets, or more readily she didn't have any at all—just a subtle curve and dip to her hip bone—and most certainly she didn't enjoy it when people pointed out that fact to her. The man smiled brightly and laughed heartily, shaking his head.

"How about we let this go, and you thank me for saving you from that nasty fall?" He stepped closer to her, starring down at her with his blazing golden eyes. "Because, I do believe thanks are in order."

"Not for someone who calls my butt small." Clary huffed and met his gaze from under her eyelashes, an impassive look passing over her freckled face.

"Do you not get over things easily, Copper?" He asked indignantly.

"Copper? Is that some sort of nickname?" She knit her eyebrows tightly together, looking at him with both immense questioning and amusement.

"Yes, since you've yet to induce me with your lovely name, Copper." He winked. Of all things, his wink deemed to be the most characteristically disastrous quirk; that is, if he were in the presence of any other girl.

"You don't need to know my name," Clary shrugged her shoulders up and returned her gaze to the long mahogany front desk, past her shoulder. "Look, I would say it was nice meeting you, but I mean... I don't particularly like being groped by random strangers that I plan on never seeing again. So, if you don't mind, I've got somewhere to be." She turned on the balls of her pumps and without a sure-fired glance back, she let the man slip away behind her, not listening to anything else he had to say. She let her feet guide her through the muddle of people over to the front desk, where a woman with brown hair and a deep indigo pant suit sat on a high black chair. There was a small sleek silver computer off to the right side—from Clary's perspective—which the woman seemed to be busy with. On the left side of the dark top, there was an authentic green Burbery lamp, turned off of course, with a small gold chain loped at the end with silver wire, hanging underneath. Clary was always a sucker for the smallest of details, and this one didn't seem to evade her minds eye.

"Hello misses—" Clary, turned and regarded the gold platted name tag on top of the cover of the front desk. "—Aline Penhallow." She gazed back up at the woman with greying wheat brown hair and gave her a lapsed smile.

"Oh, my name is actually Amatis Graymark. But today I am filling in for Ms. Penhallow." She returned the smile passively. It dropped from her face seconds later, as she looked Clary up then down, then up again.

"Can you help me with where I'm supposed to go? I'm supposed to meet uhh... Jack—? Herondale for my new position as his assistant—"

"Jace Herondale. Not Jack. Remember that." Amatis cut her off curtly and began to type loudly on the keyboard in front of her. Clary leaned forward on her elbows scanning the computer screen absent-minded and Amatis gave her an exasperated glance before she reached out and turned the screen away from Clary's lingering eyes, more so. Clary straightened up then, attempting to fain a more than professional appearance. She couldn't help the fact that she had an affinity for wanting to know everything in some sense. "Yes, you're Clarissa Fairchild?" Clary nodded. "So, if you take the F elevator on the left up to floor eighty-five, you will be opened up to Mr. Herondale's office. Got it?"

"F elevator eighty-fifth floor—is that the top floor?"

"Yes it is. Now I would get going if I were you. Mr. Herondale doesn't particularly like to be kept waiting." And with that and a simple nod, Clary turned once again on her heel—by the end of the day she was bound to have a headache by the constant motion—and fluttered over to the long wide hallway which housed the numerous amount of elevators. She stepped into elevator F, luckily it seemed to be completely vacant. As Clary went to press the button for the metallic doors to close, a blur of shiny glitter bounded their way—somehow gracefully—into the elevator, the doors closing firmly together behind the person. He pressed one of the glowing buttons on the right side of the elevator—floor numbers—leaning towards Clary. Clary made sure to press her floor number as well.

Clary starred up at the equally as tall man, as the one before in the lobby, who had the complexion of a god. His skin tawny; a rich mocha hue; his hair thick, black and twinged with strips of blue glitter; his eyes ripe green with flecks of gold, encased inside a thick line of black eyeliner on the upper lid and gold glitter on the bottom. His outfit matched perfectly with his look: black leather pants which looked as if they were painted on, a slinky light blue shirt underneath a dark brown bomber jacket with silver studs at the ends of the arms, finished with a few dark silver necklaces. Everything about him screamed fashion and well... Flamboyance.

He cut his eyes sideways at her and briefly smiled to himself. "Bonjour, mon cheré." He grabbed a hold of her hand—much to her slight protest—and raised it to his lush mouth and kissed the pale freckled skin of her hand tenderly. "Comment t'appelle tu?"

"Oh..." Clary blushed despite herself. "I don't speak french—"

"Not even a little?" He raised his thick right eyebrow high; his lips pulling up at the corners to reveal straight white teeth, while he dropped her hand.

"I understood the 'Bonjour', if that counts for anything?" Clary bit her lip smiling as she tilted her head up at him.

"Unfortunate. Someone must teach you the language of love."

"Are you offering?" Clary teased, laughing briefly to herself. She wasn't being serious in the least, but nevertheless her comment seemed to spark a subtle interest in the man. "I was kidding, by the way." She shot down, before he could interject his reply.

"Whatever suits your pretty little fiery head. What's your name?"

"Clary. Clary Fairchild." She replied lazily as she began to watch the bright colors along the numbered floors light up as they went by. "I'm new here."

"Yes, I was about to say I haven't seen you around these lovely halls before. Well, I'm Magnus Bane. It's nice to meet you."

"Thee Magnus Bane? As in, The Magnus Bane who was the fashion coordinator for the fall New York fashion week? Outfit designer to the stars?" Clary's mouth fell slack open, as she gazed upon the man in disbelief.

"The one and only, darling." He spun around in the small space, lifting his arms up as he did so. He smelt of Sandalwood and baby powder; intoxicating.

"You know my mother right?" Clary enquired, looting through her bag to find a pen. Sure, Herondale Magazine was her life in some ways; the thing she went to for advice—no matter how cheesy that sounded—the thing she went to for the latest trending fashion, hair and makeup. But she didn't know the people behind the inner workings. Jace Herondale could have been an old grumpy man who had no time for meek girls like Clary, for all she knew. She wanted to be prepared for whatever it was the Mr. Herondale would throw her way. She watched the tiny numbered buttons light up, ascending upwards to her destination, as she became increasingly nervous. Now, if she could only find that pen...

"Jocelyn Fairchild is it?" Magnus looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, raising his thin fingers underneath his chin. "Does she not go by the pen name Jocelyn Fray at her art galleries?"

"Yes, Jocelyn Fray—Jocelyn Fairchild. Same person." Clary shrugged her thin shoulders up.

"Ah, I should have recognized that shock of red hair. My fiance and I love to go to her galleries in the spring—" Magnus paused and gazed up at the white roof of the elevator briefly before returning his wondrous eyes to Clary. "—Well, at least I like to go to them. I can't say much for my fiance."

"I'm an artist like my mom, but I don't usually go to her showings." Clary added. "You're engaged though? I didn't think that The Magnus Bane stuck to exclusive relationships. Who is she?" Clary teased, or at least she hoped she sounded teasing rather than scornful.

"Darling, that was the past. And he—Alexander is my future. I can't pass that up now can I?" Magnus smirked at the same time that the elevator door opened up, another tall looming figuring sauntered in. Immediately, Magnus' face lit with a sort of glow as a large smile encompassed his face. He reached out for the man that had just walked into the small space and snaked his arm around his waist pulling him close to his body, much to the other mans protest. "Clary, this is said future. Alexander Lightwood." Clary gazed at him more acutely; his hair was dishevelled around his head, and blacker than street tar on a hot summer day; his eyes were a luminous deep blue color; his skin pale and blemish free; he was clad in a loose fitting black shirt and equally as dark jeans which were frayed and torn at the hem of the legs. Opposite, very opposite from how Magnus appeared.

"Hi," she offered her hand, in which Alexander took it kindly.

"Call me Alec. I really do hate it when people call me Alexander..." Her looked at Magnus pointedly.

"Need I remind you that I had you begging me last night to whisper Alexander in your ear while I was—"

"—And that's too much information already." Alec scowled, cutting Magnus off, and lightly nudged Magnus away from his body. "Sorry Clary. This one," he stuck his thumb out to the side, indicating to Magnus, "doesn't know how to keep a filter on the things he says."

"Sex dear doesn't need to be filtered. I'm sure Clary here doesn't mind?" Magnus turned his head to regard her, winking as he did so. Clary only nodded her head, although in her opinion it was a bit uncomfortable to talk discuss. "See? Now come on, our stop is next and I'm expecting a rather... Exciting wake up."

"Magnus it's the afternoon." Alec sighed, dropping his head between his shoulders slightly.

"So? I would still like to see your head between—"

"OKAY." Alec cut in again, planting his hand across Magnus' mouth. Alec gazed at Magnus pointedly; his eyes a piercing deep blue and shook his head; nevertheless there was still a small smile tugging at his lips. "That's enough Magnus." There was a small 'ding' that sounded around the small space of the elevator and the doors opened on the sixty-third floor. "This is us," Alec regarded Clary with a subtle wave.

"Good luck with whatever it was you had to do!" Magnus called back to her as they escaped out into the white hallway ahead; Alec pulling feverishly on Magnus' wrist in a dominating way—but somehow in Clary's perspective very tenderly. Once the doors closed, Clary sighed. Now she was left alone with her own thoughts to muddle over while the elevator continued to climb higher and higher towards her destination of Mr. Herondale's office. She had wished it was him who she had the grace of speaking with over the phone; so that she could place the voice to a faint image in her mind as to who to expect. But she had spoken to a woman, a rather rude woman at that, who seemed disheartened that Clary had even got the position as the new assistant.

It was all part of a plan for Clary; being an art major with a background in structural design as well as artistic design—this assistant position was only the first stage. If she worked her way up within the company, one day, one day soon hopefully, she could be one of the professional editors in the layout and overall design of the magazine and the photo shoots. 'You have to start at the bottom in order to work your way up'. Her mother used to tell her, no matter how stupendously simple that deemed to sound, Clary was still having a hard time grappling it; cementing it in her mind. Because really, she wanted it all now, wanted the position and or job she had always dreamt of. She wasn't one who liked to wait for an opportunity to come; she liked being fully aware and in control of her life.

But at the present moment, Jace Herondale decided her future—something Clary wasn't all that stable and confident with.

After a few nerve wracking moments the elevator finally reached the top floor and opened up into a wide set room. Everything was white and crisp. Perfect lines encased the room, from the many bookshelves that lined the far left side of the room, to the make shift bar and console area with a primped couch seated directly in front—a television looming overhead on the wall—which was all stationed at the exact back right wall of the large open room. There were floor to ceiling windows on the far back wall, that looked out to some of the other downtown buildings and the sea harbour just a ways away. There was a small white lacquer desk positioned beside the bookcases—Clary's new desk she assumed—and everything on top of it was in, an almost freighting, perfect order.

Whoever this Jace Herondale person was, definitely liked to keep things clean and structured. In the middle of the room was really the only pop of color—excluding the many books which lined the white book cases—a large rounded glossy cherry red desk with black stationery strewn on the top. Behind the desk was a tall black chair turned to face the windows at the present moment. Otherwise, the room was empty, and Jace Herondale was late—or possibly she had gotten her times mixed up and she was the one that was late. Clary stepped forward into the room, cringing at the loud clicking sound of her high heels smacking against the sleek white floor.

"Clarissa Fairchild, I'm Jace Herondale," a voice sounded from the chair. A voice Clary faintly recognized but somehow couldn't quite put her finger on. She made to reply to him, but then the chair began to turn and possibly the one person she wasn't expecting to see, the one person she doubtfully hoped to never meet again, was sitting in the confines of the seat. "You—"

"—You." They both said the the same time, Clary a bit exasperated and Jace stunned. He cleared his throat loudly, placing his left fist against his mouth while his other hand held a beige manila tag folder—her records—and then placed it on top of the cherry red surface of his desk. Clary stood there wide eyed, gazing upon the man that had irked her a mere twenty-five minutes ago. He was definitely not what she was expecting Mr. Herondale to be. She would have put her money on him being some stuffy old man; not this young, breathtaking, slightly infuriating guy, with perfectly pressed clothes and a halo of gold surrounding his head.

"Uhm, we didn't really get off to a good start this afternoon, I'm guessing, did we?" He enquired with a small half smirk. Yes, indeed he was infuriating. That smirk indicated it all.

"Look, I'm going to be mature about this. You grabbed my butt, I reacted in a way that any woman would, and we will leave it at that." Clary stated as she walked over to the desk she presumed was hers, her pumps clicking loudly on the floor, setting her sea foam green tote bag on top. Jace got up from his desk chair and walked over to her, his height still as towering and looming as it had been before.

"On the contrare, Copper. I did not grope you. Merely my hand was out, your," he gazed at her side long, his eyes skimming down the back of her legs and up, "asset was there, and the people around us sort of forced the two counter parts together. Now, I call that fate, do you not Ms. Fairchild?" He teased, snaking his arms across his chest casually.

"No, I do not call that fate! Let's just drop it okay?"

"Oh? Now you want to drop it? After I suggested that downstairs?" He quirked his right eyebrow high on his golden forehead dauntingly.

"You expected me to thank you for a fall that wouldn't have been caused unless you kept your hands to yourself." Clary suggested with a blank face. Jace shook his head and raised his left hand to the bridge of his nose; pinching it together between his long fingers.

"I'm going to have a tough time with you aren't I?" Jace let out a deep sigh, letting his eyes fall shut as he continued to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"No—I don't plan on getting fired. Just tell me what to do. And I'll do it."


A/N: Hi! I'm Amber! This will be my second long fanfiction that I am writing. My other one is called Castles Made of Sand (A Malec fic), which is still going on. I got very side-tracked by this idea, and I just needed to type it out before I forgot it. Review and tell me what you think of it! I'm up for constructive criticism (: This fic won't have a familiar updating schedule, as I need to pay more attention to Castles Made of Sand—but I will try to manage both in a good way. I guess this story will follow the life of Clary and the inner workings of her new job, as well as her friends, love interest(s), and will also deal with some hardships. I don't exactly know where I am going to end up with this story, but I hope you stick along for the ride! (As noted at the top, that quote is from Macbeth, by Shakespeare. It may not have complete significance to the chapter really, but I just like to add in my favorite drabbles from plays, songs, works of fiction etc.) Also, all The Mortal Instruments characters will make it in there somehow... (Maybe not Luke, I always have a really hard time writing about him, I have no idea why).

Review?

Amber,