The thick mist of water vapor gradually dispersed. Solomon used the tip of his sword to flick up a golden ring lying on the ground.
It was an angel's halo—a symbol of its rank and essence. Unless a witch summoned a lower-plane creature to devour the angel, or the halo was handed over to the fallen-angel craftsman Rodin, simply leaving it would allow the angel to resurrect within a short time. Whether or not it would still be this ugly was uncertain, since as a spiritual being, its form was purely arbitrary. Solomon activated the power of his holy sword, its blazing blade slicing through the halo as easily as butter, completely erasing the mid-tier angel's soul. Such was the sword's power—to obliterate the essence of extra-dimensional beings. Every spirit, phantom, or horror wept before it.
He had overestimated that angel's combat ability. It hadn't even taken thirty seconds. At that moment, the subway had only just cleared the Williamsburg Bridge. The witches were fending off a fresh wave of lower-tier angels, and Jeanne had no time left to argue about Solomon stealing her prey.
"Constantine, Catherine, Aura. Report."
"I believe the lower-tier angels in Hell's Kitchen, Greenwich Village, and SoHo are no longer a problem, my lord," Catherine replied cheerfully. In fact, due to the low enemy density, the heavy fire teams often took out targets before the Sisterhood's strike units could even engage. The ceramic-shell bodies of the lower-tier angels were no match for explosive rounds and plasma. Even the stragglers fell easily to electrified longswords and chainsaw blades.
Catherine strongly protested to Aura, demanding that the heavy fire unit leave some prey for her strike team—otherwise, they'd rot from boredom. She was clearly enjoying herself. Though the order was technically "search and destroy," this mission was far more satisfying than the one they carried out on that alien planet with the hive. Excited, Catherine waved from one rooftop to another.
In response, Aura made a hand gesture that basically meant, "Don't bother me."
"No mid-tier angels here. Situation in the Triangle remains unclear. Over," Aura added coolly. Her voice was nearly drowned out by gunfire as her heavy fire unit continued shooting down angels diving from the sky. Explosives were far more effective than regular bullets—just a few rounds could drop a lower-tier angel—but ammo shortages remained a concern. "Use more plasma weapons," said Aura to her team, adjusting the headpiece Solomon had given her. "Follow sniping and intercept orders. Let the strike team pups do more of the work."
"With Miss Maximoff's assistance, I'm effectively hunting mid-tier angels," Constantine reported, reeking of ozone and burning fuel. He nodded to the witch. "Miss Maximoff has performed admirably. Few mid-tier angels remain in Times Square. If possible, she wouldn't mind supporting the Sisterhood."
"Anything else?"
"According to Kamar-Taj's New York Sanctum, a serpentine upper-tier angel is still circling about five thousand feet above Manhattan," Constantine said.
At that, Solomon looked up. He could vaguely sense the angel's movements, but nothing as precise as what the Eye of Agamotto would provide. The constant overlapping shrieks, like infant cries, muddled any attempt at clear tracking. He could estimate the numbers, but not distances.
"I believe it wants to stalemate with you, my lord. It fears your attacks. After all, you took down that Thrones-class angel in one strike. What's your plan?"
"Have Stephanie make a donation to the NYPD—tell them where to maintain order. Also, establish a relief fund for affected civilians. I'll deal with the big one personally." Solomon ended the communication and sent an encrypted magical short message to the two witches. Though only twenty-five words, it was enough to convey his intent. As expected, Jeanne responded with two gunshots aimed in his direction. Somehow, even from outside effective range, her shots traced an exact path, the projectiles weakly tapping off his helmet without leaving so much as a scuff.
From the direction the subway had vanished, a violet blade flashed through the air, followed by a massive fist woven from hair. It seemed the witches had drawn their melee weapons and were ready for carnage. Solomon shrugged and opened a portal based on the coordinates Constantine had provided. He stepped through.
It was time to get serious.
"Does no one know if this is a terrorist attack or an accident?" Detective Carter slammed the car door shut, clearly exasperated. She had questioned the beat cops but knew full well they wouldn't have answers. The chaos stretched from Manhattan to Williamsburg, from low-rises to skyscrapers. This wasn't a gas explosion. It wasn't an electrical malfunction. She turned her ire toward her partner, Detective Fusco. "And you—stop eating!" she shouted. "No casualty reports, no suspects—how are we supposed to work like this?"
"Maybe you should stop and eat a donut," said Fusco, possibly of Italian descent, licking his fingers and paying no mind to his partner's frustration. Ever since he'd become her partner, enduring Carter's scolding had become routine. It was like a husband being told to wash the dishes: he'd do it at first, but eventually give up, realizing the dishwasher was mankind's greatest invention.
And Fusco really did believe dishwashers were mankind's greatest invention.
"You think Iron Man or Captain America are just going to show up and fix everything?" Carter pounded the steering wheel. "Manhattan is a warzone! And now a bunch of idiots claim they saw angels and are running around with guns! I don't care about the damn Avengers—this is New York, and we're cops! If we can't get a handle on this or make any arrests, things are going to spiral. What about the airport? Can we question the pilots?"
"Those two pilots just said the planes went haywire. We're not the ones investigating the black boxes. If you ask me, we should call the Avengers right now. Remember last time in New York? I bet it's aliens again—maybe invisible ones. Or people from the future," Fusco said. "Either way, only the National Guard or the Avengers can deal with this. We're just bystanders. Eat something—it might be the last donut we get. That shop's already buried under rubble."
Carter glanced at the lone chocolate-frosted donut in the box, grabbed it, and bit down hard.
"Calls are being handled by patrol units. HQ wants us to help out. Too many people out here with guns today—we need to grab our vests," Fusco added. "The chief already contacted the Avengers and the National Guard. Now it's just a matter of who shows up first."
"This isn't over, Fusco," she muttered through a mouthful. "This isn't over!"
(End of Chapter)
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