In Between
Part of the financial deal she had received from the university, who were more than accommodating with a sparkling reference from her dad’s boss, was that Chloe would have to get a job on campus to help with her tuition load. Unfortunately, the school paper did not fall under her work study package. With her course load and necessary campus job, Chloe had to take a step back from actual journalism for a while.
Luckily, her on-campus job took some of the withdrawal pains away. She began work at the library, helping one of the research librarians with their duties. Mr. Dermot Lynch was a typical academic sort, Chloe assumed upon their first meeting. He reminded her of her grandfather in a way, getting on in the years, but still sharp as a tack with a twinkle in his eye. Still, that did not mean he was not a tough old coot.
When Chloe had brought him an article printed out from the internet when he had requested something for a proposal, he looked at her over the rim of his glasses and spoke in his crisp, New England accent:
“Miss Sullivan, you have a lot to learn.”
“Excuse me?” She asked confusedly, glancing at the paper in his hand.
“There’s no doubt you’re exceptionally talented; your writing speaks for itself,” he said, the twinkle in his grey eyes. Dermot placed the article on his desk, discarding it for the time being. “Valiant effort, though I must say, your research leaves something to be desired.”
“You’ve read my writing?” Chloe was surprised. Mr. Lynch had made an effort to look at some of her work? How had he gotten his hands on it? The Torch website had disbanded a while ago and not much of her work had been printed in the Planet, unless he had been impressed with her obituaries and ads. “How?”
“Google can only get you so far, Chloe,” Dermot spoke, standing from his chair. “You’ve got to learn to dig deeper.”
Chloe followed him out of the room, and that’s when her quasi-apprenticeship began. He taught her ways to get around different databases and work her way through thousands of books. Dermot Lynch was a firm believer in having a strong foundation. Chloe found herself uncovering new tricks to add to her arsenal.
Chloe found herself spending more and more time in the library, learning more from Mr. Lynch with each passing day. Classes were enjoyable but she was still playing a rapid game of catch-up. A social life be damned - the skills she was learning would be more important.
Her book bag was slung over her shoulder and two coffee cups were clutched in her hands as she climbed the stairs to Mr. Lynch’s third floor office. It was late and most of her classmates had gone to the game at Fenway Park to watch the Sox’s latest game leaving the library practically empty. The light was on in Mr. Lynch’s office, just as she had expected.
“I’m having trouble locating anything on the artifact after the 1850’s, Bobby,” she heard Lynch’s voice speak.
Artifacts? What student would be writing about artifacts? Chloe approached the student desk for the special collections section of the library, dropping her bag quietly onto the floor.
“I need to find this, Dermot,” a thickly Midwestern accented voice spoke, catching Chloe’s attention. His voice sounded well above the age of the average frat boy.
“And you say John’s boy hasn’t found anything?” Lynch asked thoughtfully. Chloe could picture him leaning back in his chair, rubbing the white whiskers on his chin from lack of shaving that he thought were fashionable. “I’m going to take another look here. Then I’ve got a couple of friends out in Salem. If not, we’ll try Harvard. I’ve still got some pull there.”
“Thanks, Dermot. I really appreciate it,” Bobby spoke. Chloe sat in the chair, barely moving so that she would be able to hear everything going on in the office.
“After what you did for me and my wife, I owe you,” Mr. Lynch replied, causing Chloe’s brow to furrow and turns toward the door. “I’d do anything to help John’s boys if what you’re saying is true.”
“We’re going to be in for a hell of a fight,” the man agreed. Chloe drummed her nails on the counter in thought, glancing behind her just as the door to Lynch’s office opened.
“Chloe!” Mr. Lynch said brightly in a warm greeting. She offered up a small smile, nodding her head towards one of the coffee cups.
“Black, two sugars,” she said in explanation.
“You’re too good to me,” he said with a wink. Chloe glanced over at the man who had also exited the room. Flannel, trucker hat, and beard - a much different style than most came into contact with here. In Metropolis, it might have been a different story. “Chloe, I’d like you to meet Bobby Singer. Bobby, this is my new apprentice, Chloe Sullivan.”
“From Smallville?” Bobby asked, shaking her hand in greeting. Chloe nodded, brow quirking. He also nodded. “I’ve read your stuff.”
Lynch smiled, looking amused when he caught Chloe’s glance. “You’ve got to dig, Sullivan.”
And she did. Later that night when she was in bed with her laptop, Chloe did a full search on Dermot Lynch. Her results surprised her. Dermot Lynch was much more than a librarian. He had been a professor of Anthropology as well as a seminar speaker on Journalism during his time at Harvard. Married for fifty years, he had two children - one of which died under mysterious circumstances. His focus of study was on cultural anthropology, most particularly the study of folklore and superstition.
Her weirdar was on full alert.
The next morning was Saturday. She had work at the library in the afternoon, but she took the time to arrive earlier. Her efforts proved fruitful for when she dropped the copy of Lynch’s career findings on ritualistic demonic folklore onto his desk, it achieved the acquired effect.
“Anthropologist, huh?” She asked, hands on her hips. “How did a revered Harvard professor end up as a librarian?”
“You’ve finally learned, Miss Sullivan,” he smiled, leaning back in her chair which only made to annoy her. “I knew you would have it in you.”
“Have what in me?”
“The nerve,” Lynch remarked, a twinkle in his eye. “You haven’t disappointed me.”
“Can we move past the vague asides and move onto the soliloquy where you expel your master plan?”
“Patience is a virtue, Chloe.”
“Which I am sorely lacking, I know,” she rambled off, hands leaving her hips and stepping towards his desk. Her hand gestured to the book. “What? Are you in some sort of cult? Planning on taking over the world?”
“Exactly the opposite,” he said calmly, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. “I’m retiring soon.”
“And this has to do with the things that go bump in the night how?”
“I needed to make sure someone had the skills to continue my work. I needed someone I could trust and who had the nerve and intelligence to deal with the things I know.”
“You’ve been training me?” Chloe asked, feeling slightly violated due to this newfound information.
“When I was given the list of possible students to hire, I background checked each and every last one of them. And you, you, Miss Sullivan, were the rare needle in a haystack. Just from reading your high school newspaper I knew that you would be able to handle the knowledge.”
Chloe remained silent, green eyes focused on the older man seated on the desk across from her. She took a breath. “You’re not going to tell me I’m the new slayer, are you?”
Mr. Lynch chuckled slightly. “There’s a war brewing, Chloe. Things that most people only imagine. Folklore is oftentimes based in fact, though variations become distorted or embellished over time. There are nightmares out in the world.”
“The monster under the bed is real?”
“In a sense. There are a group of people who fight back against the evil, living under the radar.”
“People like Bobby Singer?” She inquired, remembering the man in the trucker hat from the previous night. Lynch nodded in answer to her question. “So, what is it you do?”
“I use my connections. I get them the information they need to help in the fight.”
“And you want me to do this?”
“I’m not going to be around forever, Chloe. They will need someone like you. Someone who is on the outside with resources at their disposal.”
She nearly snorted in laughter. Chloe hoped he did not want to get into a ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ game with the amount of resources. He might get jealous. “This is exactly the type of thing I tried to get away from when I left Smallville.”
“Some people have a higher calling in life that they just cannot escape.”
“Fate is a bitch.”
“Agreed,” Mr. Lynch nodded, pulling a piece of lint off his sweater vest. “Come on, Chloe. I think I owe you a cup of coffee.”
Two weeks later, Dermot Lynch would be found on the floor of his kitchen by his wife, suffering a heart attack while making breakfast. Placed on an indefinite leave of absence, he requested his student continue the projects he had been working on. Chloe knew that he was keeping her in position, ready to help when necessary.
She found she could not fault the old man.
He had told her about some details, about how his son had been possessed and Bobby had been the one to banish the demon, yet killing his weak son in the process. Chloe had also been more formally introduced to Bobby and entered into a correspondence with the man, learning more and more about the underground fight against Hell.
And she thought Smallville was weird on its own.
Luckily, her on-campus job took some of the withdrawal pains away. She began work at the library, helping one of the research librarians with their duties. Mr. Dermot Lynch was a typical academic sort, Chloe assumed upon their first meeting. He reminded her of her grandfather in a way, getting on in the years, but still sharp as a tack with a twinkle in his eye. Still, that did not mean he was not a tough old coot.
When Chloe had brought him an article printed out from the internet when he had requested something for a proposal, he looked at her over the rim of his glasses and spoke in his crisp, New England accent:
“Miss Sullivan, you have a lot to learn.”
“Excuse me?” She asked confusedly, glancing at the paper in his hand.
“There’s no doubt you’re exceptionally talented; your writing speaks for itself,” he said, the twinkle in his grey eyes. Dermot placed the article on his desk, discarding it for the time being. “Valiant effort, though I must say, your research leaves something to be desired.”
“You’ve read my writing?” Chloe was surprised. Mr. Lynch had made an effort to look at some of her work? How had he gotten his hands on it? The Torch website had disbanded a while ago and not much of her work had been printed in the Planet, unless he had been impressed with her obituaries and ads. “How?”
“Google can only get you so far, Chloe,” Dermot spoke, standing from his chair. “You’ve got to learn to dig deeper.”
Chloe followed him out of the room, and that’s when her quasi-apprenticeship began. He taught her ways to get around different databases and work her way through thousands of books. Dermot Lynch was a firm believer in having a strong foundation. Chloe found herself uncovering new tricks to add to her arsenal.
Chloe found herself spending more and more time in the library, learning more from Mr. Lynch with each passing day. Classes were enjoyable but she was still playing a rapid game of catch-up. A social life be damned - the skills she was learning would be more important.
Her book bag was slung over her shoulder and two coffee cups were clutched in her hands as she climbed the stairs to Mr. Lynch’s third floor office. It was late and most of her classmates had gone to the game at Fenway Park to watch the Sox’s latest game leaving the library practically empty. The light was on in Mr. Lynch’s office, just as she had expected.
“I’m having trouble locating anything on the artifact after the 1850’s, Bobby,” she heard Lynch’s voice speak.
Artifacts? What student would be writing about artifacts? Chloe approached the student desk for the special collections section of the library, dropping her bag quietly onto the floor.
“I need to find this, Dermot,” a thickly Midwestern accented voice spoke, catching Chloe’s attention. His voice sounded well above the age of the average frat boy.
“And you say John’s boy hasn’t found anything?” Lynch asked thoughtfully. Chloe could picture him leaning back in his chair, rubbing the white whiskers on his chin from lack of shaving that he thought were fashionable. “I’m going to take another look here. Then I’ve got a couple of friends out in Salem. If not, we’ll try Harvard. I’ve still got some pull there.”
“Thanks, Dermot. I really appreciate it,” Bobby spoke. Chloe sat in the chair, barely moving so that she would be able to hear everything going on in the office.
“After what you did for me and my wife, I owe you,” Mr. Lynch replied, causing Chloe’s brow to furrow and turns toward the door. “I’d do anything to help John’s boys if what you’re saying is true.”
“We’re going to be in for a hell of a fight,” the man agreed. Chloe drummed her nails on the counter in thought, glancing behind her just as the door to Lynch’s office opened.
“Chloe!” Mr. Lynch said brightly in a warm greeting. She offered up a small smile, nodding her head towards one of the coffee cups.
“Black, two sugars,” she said in explanation.
“You’re too good to me,” he said with a wink. Chloe glanced over at the man who had also exited the room. Flannel, trucker hat, and beard - a much different style than most came into contact with here. In Metropolis, it might have been a different story. “Chloe, I’d like you to meet Bobby Singer. Bobby, this is my new apprentice, Chloe Sullivan.”
“From Smallville?” Bobby asked, shaking her hand in greeting. Chloe nodded, brow quirking. He also nodded. “I’ve read your stuff.”
Lynch smiled, looking amused when he caught Chloe’s glance. “You’ve got to dig, Sullivan.”
And she did. Later that night when she was in bed with her laptop, Chloe did a full search on Dermot Lynch. Her results surprised her. Dermot Lynch was much more than a librarian. He had been a professor of Anthropology as well as a seminar speaker on Journalism during his time at Harvard. Married for fifty years, he had two children - one of which died under mysterious circumstances. His focus of study was on cultural anthropology, most particularly the study of folklore and superstition.
Her weirdar was on full alert.
The next morning was Saturday. She had work at the library in the afternoon, but she took the time to arrive earlier. Her efforts proved fruitful for when she dropped the copy of Lynch’s career findings on ritualistic demonic folklore onto his desk, it achieved the acquired effect.
“Anthropologist, huh?” She asked, hands on her hips. “How did a revered Harvard professor end up as a librarian?”
“You’ve finally learned, Miss Sullivan,” he smiled, leaning back in her chair which only made to annoy her. “I knew you would have it in you.”
“Have what in me?”
“The nerve,” Lynch remarked, a twinkle in his eye. “You haven’t disappointed me.”
“Can we move past the vague asides and move onto the soliloquy where you expel your master plan?”
“Patience is a virtue, Chloe.”
“Which I am sorely lacking, I know,” she rambled off, hands leaving her hips and stepping towards his desk. Her hand gestured to the book. “What? Are you in some sort of cult? Planning on taking over the world?”
“Exactly the opposite,” he said calmly, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. “I’m retiring soon.”
“And this has to do with the things that go bump in the night how?”
“I needed to make sure someone had the skills to continue my work. I needed someone I could trust and who had the nerve and intelligence to deal with the things I know.”
“You’ve been training me?” Chloe asked, feeling slightly violated due to this newfound information.
“When I was given the list of possible students to hire, I background checked each and every last one of them. And you, you, Miss Sullivan, were the rare needle in a haystack. Just from reading your high school newspaper I knew that you would be able to handle the knowledge.”
Chloe remained silent, green eyes focused on the older man seated on the desk across from her. She took a breath. “You’re not going to tell me I’m the new slayer, are you?”
Mr. Lynch chuckled slightly. “There’s a war brewing, Chloe. Things that most people only imagine. Folklore is oftentimes based in fact, though variations become distorted or embellished over time. There are nightmares out in the world.”
“The monster under the bed is real?”
“In a sense. There are a group of people who fight back against the evil, living under the radar.”
“People like Bobby Singer?” She inquired, remembering the man in the trucker hat from the previous night. Lynch nodded in answer to her question. “So, what is it you do?”
“I use my connections. I get them the information they need to help in the fight.”
“And you want me to do this?”
“I’m not going to be around forever, Chloe. They will need someone like you. Someone who is on the outside with resources at their disposal.”
She nearly snorted in laughter. Chloe hoped he did not want to get into a ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ game with the amount of resources. He might get jealous. “This is exactly the type of thing I tried to get away from when I left Smallville.”
“Some people have a higher calling in life that they just cannot escape.”
“Fate is a bitch.”
“Agreed,” Mr. Lynch nodded, pulling a piece of lint off his sweater vest. “Come on, Chloe. I think I owe you a cup of coffee.”
Two weeks later, Dermot Lynch would be found on the floor of his kitchen by his wife, suffering a heart attack while making breakfast. Placed on an indefinite leave of absence, he requested his student continue the projects he had been working on. Chloe knew that he was keeping her in position, ready to help when necessary.
She found she could not fault the old man.
He had told her about some details, about how his son had been possessed and Bobby had been the one to banish the demon, yet killing his weak son in the process. Chloe had also been more formally introduced to Bobby and entered into a correspondence with the man, learning more and more about the underground fight against Hell.
And she thought Smallville was weird on its own.