Wanda yawned as she stepped into the dining room, her feet crunching down on the corpses of Santa Claus and reindeer toys scattered across the carpet. Hidden shards of plastic jabbed at her soles, jolting her awake. A vinyl record was playing the theme from an old Hollywood movie on repeat, its outdated tune floating through the warm air, tinged with the musty scent of old film reels.
She was wearing thick cotton pajamas with strawberry prints, perfectly matching the hue of her hair. Last night before bed, she had been surprised to find that the bath products in the guest bathroom were exactly the same brands she used. Most of the toiletries she had when she moved into her penthouse were ones she had picked out with Solomon. She hadn't expected him to actually remember her preferences. That small gesture of thoughtfulness moved her deeply, especially now that Pietro had gone his own way, abandoning the path Solomon had chosen for him. The Maximoff twins had diverged completely. The familiar scent helped her fall asleep on an unfamiliar pillow so soundly that, upon stepping out of her room, she momentarily forgot she wasn't in her own apartment.
She was still dazed when the aroma of oil, sugar, and tea reached her brain.
"Hurry, before Dana's bacon goes cold." The sorcerer, seated in a soft chair, called her over. He was holding a newspaper, and the ceramic mug in front of him steamed with fragrant, sweetened black tea. When he saw Wanda, Solomon discreetly covered the third page of The Sun. Dana, in high heels, glided noiselessly over with a plate and gently set it down in front of Wanda. The intimacy of the gesture flustered the young witch—she had never been served by a maid before. Even after last night's dinner, she still couldn't get used to this kind of closeness.
"Once you've finished breakfast, we can start your training," Solomon said.
"Your… girlfriends?" Wanda asked, emphasizing the plural.
"They went out to pick up some custom jewelry. I assigned Sisterhood operatives to escort them. Not that they need protection, but having help avoids unnecessary trouble." Solomon spoke casually. After all, he had no issue decapitating the suitors of witches—though shooting or slashing them in the street was a bit inhumane. A rocket launcher was more efficient. "They'll be back before lunch," he added. "Once your lesson is done, we'll continue with academic studies. You should start thinking about what you'd like to major in. I recommend mathematics and classical literature—you've nearly finished your Latin course."
"Do all sorcerers have to go to college?" Wanda asked with a smile.
She already knew the answer was no. During her time at Kamar-Taj, she'd met several sorcerers, and not all of them were Ivy League grads. Sorcerers like Solomon—those with degrees from secular institutions—were rare.
Solomon wrinkled his nose. "I don't care about the others. This whole 'college is useless' argument is so dumb, and the people who believe it are even dumber." He was clearly referring to Pietro's foolishness. He didn't say it outright, not wanting to sour Wanda's mood over family matters. "Reason and knowledge will always be important. Don't you agree?"
"My lord!" A heavy metallic thud echoed through the apartment, rapidly approaching. The golden-armored Royal Guard strode in with gale-force speed, his deep crimson cloak billowing like a charging tank, like a hammer striking from above. Constantine's voice was urgent. "Emergency transmission from Kamar-Taj."
"Speak," Solomon said, setting the newspaper aside, his tone shifting from lighthearted to serious.
"Upper-plane entities have started appearing in small numbers over New York. The local Sanctum has initiated emergency protocols, and the stewards have entered the shallow Aether plane to investigate."
Solomon closed his eyes, extending his senses.
Wanda followed the technique he had taught her, and she too began to sense it—something hot drifting over the city, shrieking with a piercing wail like a crying infant. It was a body of thought, a spiritual form composed of extreme emotion. Wanda could hardly stand the brain-piercing noise and had to break her concentration. Solomon saw more. He knew this sensation well—he had encountered these foes before.
By all rights, such creatures should have long since disintegrated, swallowed by the turbulent tides of the Astral Plane, or exterminated by witches who prevented them from spawning new angels. Yet these invisible entities were now seeping into New York, defying his assumptions.
Perhaps some church had held a Christmas mass, providing the wandering bird-like creatures in the shallow Aether with a path into the material world. At least they had yet to manifest physical bodies—that was the only comforting fact.
A damned act of folly. A superstition worthy of a thousand curses.
Using his mystic sight, Solomon scanned the city, trying to determine whether this was just a spiritual tide from the Sea of Souls or a coordinated assault. He followed the gaze of the witches—both Bayonetta and Jeanne had sensed something wrong. They raised their heads, searching the skies for their old enemies. It had been some time since either had killed with their own hands. Bayonetta lifted her head and smiled from beneath her broad-brimmed white hat. Jeanne, eager for action, revved her motorcycle—ready to crush the first foe she found.
The witches caught Solomon's mystic gaze. Bayonetta gave him a wave.
"What are those?" Wanda asked, breathing heavily.
"Angels. Not a single one of them is good." Solomon frowned, opening his eyes in the material world. "Pretty on-brand for Christmas, huh? Maybe they're here to hand out gifts? Though I doubt those wings will fit down a chimney—and they're not even wearing hats."
"My lord, jokes can wait," Constantine said, his face hidden behind a helmet. "Kamar-Taj is asking if you're willing to help handle the situation. Yes, you heard right—they're asking. Today's guardian of the Sanctum is Master Daniel."
"That old coot. Now he wants to cozy up to me." Solomon didn't show the tension Wanda expected—instead, he bit into a strip of bacon. Whether it was an organized attack or a freak occurrence, the sudden appearance of these angels meant they were minor ones at best. Even Kamar-Taj was focused on investigating, not direct combat. Getting to the root of the problem was the priority.
"Maybe it's just a few stragglers. I've already given Bayonetta and Jeanne the green light—they'll enjoy this, trust me." He added, "Constantine, check if my armor's been repaired. Make sure your own suit is fully powered. We may end up fighting side by side. Wanda, interested in some hands-on experience?"
At first, it was a low buzzing, like a swarm of bees, drowned out by store music—no one paid attention. Then the display windows began to tremble, dazzling jewelry quivering like beating hearts. The clamor of machinery and fire muffled the cheerful holiday ambiance. That's when people started looking up—toward the source of the sound.
A gray fighter jet was accelerating toward Fifth Avenue.
New Yorkers knew the drill. In a city plagued by disasters, you had to learn fast. Whether it was a terrorist attack or an alien invasion, the moment that jet appeared, even those who had no idea what was happening started screaming and fleeing. Like a flock of panicked chicks, they dashed toward subway entrances and building lobbies, trying to escape the flames and debris they knew would follow.
(End of Chapter)
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