"Is it over?" Bayonetta asked.
The TV in the living room was playing a very old film, and Solomon could tell at a glance that these were the witches' favorites. Whether it was Roman Holiday, Breakfast at Tiffany's, or War and Peace, the leading lady was always Audrey Hepburn. In a way, the witches studied old movies to learn about modern fashion. Unlike the postmodern trend of minimalism, witches preferred complex elegance. With their stunning beauty, their sophisticated attire never looked outdated—quite the opposite, in fact. Solomon was confident that the old Hollywood glamour embraced by the witches would never go out of style.
Wanda found it a bit hard to adjust; she hadn't expected anyone's taste to be more old-fashioned than hers. But the witches had agreed to her suggestion to watch a 1970s family sitcom earlier, and for them, it was a novelty.
"Yes, just a small matter," Solomon said, squeezing in between Bayonetta and Jeanne.
Dana tactfully dimmed the lights in the living room, allowing her master to immerse himself in the world of the film. But she was also trying to hide Constantine in the shadows—after all, a giant golden figure tended to draw attention, which wasn't exactly proper hospitality. The apartment's floors were much thicker than those in other buildings. During the time the witches and Solomon were living at the Oxfordshire estate, the walls and floors of the apartment had been reinforced with alloy plating—enough to withstand artillery—so Constantine could walk around in his powered armor without crashing through the floor.
"Is that buttered popcorn? Any chocolate?"
"Here it is, Master," Dana replied, shooting a look at Constantine, clearly proud of her ability to anticipate Solomon's every need. But the Royal Guard showed no reaction. He stood silently in the corner, his golden armor glinting faintly. Gripping his halberd, he scanned the surroundings through his helmet's electronic interface, analyzing every potential threat to his master's safety. Solomon had recently granted him preliminary access to intelligence operations and tasked him with building his own independent intelligence network—one separate from existing agencies, encompassing everyone from lowlifes to elites. Constantine knew this was a contingency measure, aimed at countering disloyal Hydra agents or rogue S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives.
He also knew that nearly everyone Solomon trusted was in this very room.
Constantine was aware of Solomon's long-standing contingency plan to kill Wanda Maximoff. When he began training in the powered armor, learning how to execute that plan was one of his required lessons. He understood Wanda on both psychological and physical levels. For a clean, one-strike kill, he had to know everything.
Even so, it didn't stop Solomon from laughing and chatting with her on the couch, seemingly treating her as a true friend—teaching her, protecting her with real emotion. Constantine couldn't fathom what kind of rationality allowed someone to make that kind of decision or what kind of mental fortitude could bear the pain of killing someone dear. He felt that the weariness in his master's soul was hidden behind a mask of cheer and resolve; all the compassion and mercy Solomon once held dear had been discarded.
He had no choice. Let him enjoy the holiday, Constantine thought.
"Wanda, which guest room would you like?" Bayonetta asked, turning toward the young woman sitting on the guest couch.
Though Wanda had begun to loosen up, she was still visibly flustered by the witches' suggestion that she stay the night. Just then, Bayonetta quietly cast a spell, and her thoughts flowed directly to Solomon: "I need to pick up a necklace tomorrow morning. Jewelry shops don't close for Christmas. Jeanne will come with me. You stay home and keep Wanda company. The poor girl has hardly any family left—I can't believe the Avengers weren't decent enough for Pietro to visit his own sister."
Wanda was clearly unaware of the subtle etheric ripple. Her attention was elsewhere.
"Don't worry, we've already prepared everything you'll need—essentials, spare clothes. You're welcome to stay for a few days," Bayonetta said aloud, though her thoughts were elsewhere. Solomon didn't know why she'd brought this up, but he was certain Bayonetta had a reason for inviting Wanda Maximoff—something he wasn't yet aware of.
So, he leaned over and kissed her on the lips. Wanda blushed instantly.
"Tastes like honey," he said aloud. Turning to Wanda, Solomon added, "Don't be shy. Bayonetta really likes you. You can treat this place as your own home. There'll be none of that 'guests and fish go bad after three days' nonsense here."
Jeanne licked the syrup from her fingers. If she hadn't had her feet propped on Solomon's lap, she might've passed for a noblewoman. Her mother had taught her proper etiquette from a young age, and although witches were generally rebellious, Jeanne had always taken pride in it. She might even have royal blood—but no one could prove it now.
"If you can't say something smart, just shut up, you dummy," she muttered.
"Well, since I'm clearly not winning this, how about we squeeze in a lesson?" the sorcerer suggested. "Wanda, it's been a while since I last guided you, and some spells are best taught by female practitioners anyway. I'm sure Bayonetta and Jeanne would love to help. Plus, your praise of dinner made Dana very happy—she rarely cooks for anyone besides us. Be kind to her. It meant a lot."
"…All right," Wanda hesitated, then nodded.
To support Solomon's pitch, Dana put on a cheerful expression and pulled a Christmas cracker from her maid uniform's pocket. With a faint pop, colorful streamers and a cheap paper hat sprang out. However, the crackers had been enchanted by mischievous pixies and had turned into full-blown prank devices—no one saw it coming.
The living room erupted in chaos.
Bayonetta and Jeanne leapt onto the couch, drawing their pistols and shooting down every rogue toy that came near. Solomon grabbed a dagger and skewered a wind-up Santa trying to set off another cracker in his lap. Dana ducked flying streamers and leaping toy elves, rushing to ask Wanda what she wanted for breakfast. But the young witch was too busy trying to remove a paper hat that was singing off-key Christmas songs while making rude faces.
Constantine sighed quietly, raised his halberd, and joined the farce.
(End of Chapter)
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