If the Osborn "genetic disease" wasn't a disease at all, but a demon's curse, then everything finally made sense.
Harry's serum had healed him.
But the curse didn't care.
The demon lurking in the shadows simply struck again, wiping Harry out in one final, merciless wave.
The more Gwen thought about it, the more the idea shone in her mind. Her eyes lit up as she turned to Hawk.
"So, what do we do next?"
"Next…" Hawk eyed her, seeing the spark of curiosity in her expression. He smirked. "I drop you off at home. Then I go home. Then we both go to bed."
Gwen's shoulders slumped.
"Hawk."
"It's a demon. I don't even know where the gates of Hell are yet. You think I can track down whatever's already gone back there?"
He had tried. After the funeral, Hawk had stretched his senses to the limit, hoping to find the presence again. If he could catch it, maybe he could learn where Earth's gateway to Hell was hidden.
If he had that information, once he got the Reality Stone he could run straight there.
Maybe—just maybe—bring Anya back for Christmas.
But hope was one thing. Reality was cruel.
The aura had vanished. And with Harry dead, the Osborn line was broken. The demon's work was done.
The real question remained: what had the Osborns done to earn such a curse?
…
That night, after dropping Gwen off, Hawk showered, but instead of sleeping went straight to the study. He booted up the dusty old computer left behind by the previous homeowner and began digging into Osborn history.
Everyone knew how Norman Osborn had risen—selling off the family's herring cannery for weapons contracts, building Oscorp on war profits.
But Norman already had the "disease" by then.
So it had to go back further.
Earlier.
He scoured the net. Nothing about the Osborns before Norman. Practically erased.
He frowned, then picked up his phone. Scrolled to his third saved contact. Peter.
The line clicked.
"Hello?"
"The Osborns aren't originally from New York, are they?"
"Nope—ow, hold still!"
"…You're still out at this hour?" Hawk glanced at the clock. Eleven p.m.
"Yeah, back home, but something felt off so I went on patrol."
Hawk let it slide. "So where did the Osborns come from?"
"London," Peter replied, webbing up a mugger. "That's why Harry went to school there. Old family ties."
London. Not Texas, where demons ran rampant.
"And the disease? Do you know when it started?"
"Why are you asking this now?"
"Couldn't sleep."
"…Fine. I think Harry once said it showed up after the family moved from Massachusetts to New York."
Hawk raised a brow. "Wait. I thought you said London?"
"They came over on the Mayflower. First settlers landed in Massachusetts. The Osborns started in Salem. After the Salem trials, they moved to New York."
Hawk froze.
Salem.
The Salem Witch Trials.
His gut told him he'd found it. The curse's origin.
He dug deeper online, searching Salem records.
1620: Mayflower arrival.
1692: the Salem witch trials.
Dozens accused. Nineteen executed. Countless more undocumented.
And there, in a scanned page of brittle parchment, he found it:
April 22, 1692. Magistrates Hathorne and Osborn presided over the condemnation of twelve women. Eleven were burned alive.
Hawk leaned back, hissing through his teeth. Evidence.
Right then—
"Holy sh—what the hell!"
"—Hawk, quick, under the Manhattan Bridge—"
Click.
The line went dead.
Hawk bolted from the study.
…
Under the Manhattan Bridge.
Peter hung suspended in midair, arms and legs spread wide, bound by unseen force. His mask's lenses were wide with shock. His phone lay shattered on the ground.
Muscles strained. His suit tore at the seams. But he couldn't break free.
Because in front of him floated a figure cloaked in blue hellfire. A witch, her hand raised, slowly turning. Peter's body spun helplessly to match her movements.
Her voice was hollow, echoing.
"Those who aid the Osborns… must die."
"Is that so?"
Hawk's voice rang out.
The witch's blazing eyes snapped toward him. She hurled a wave of blue fire.
BOOM!
The flames detonated in Hawk's fist as he strode through them unharmed.
Peter dropped with a thud, immediately firing webs to yank himself back upright beside Hawk.
"Hawk—what the hell is that?!"
"Salem witch," Hawk said flatly, eyes fixed on the burning phantom. "We didn't know the Osborns were cursed by witches. No need to take it out on us."
Peter gaped. "Wait. Salem witches weren't real, were they?"
"Some were fakes. This one isn't."
A witch strong enough to claw her way out of Hell? Very real.
"Then why me?" Peter demanded.
"Because your blood healed Harry. She blames you."
Peter's stomach turned. The memory of being trapped, helpless, burned into him.
"…How do we kill it?"
"You don't," Hawk said simply.
"What?"
"It's not solid. It's soul-stuff. Physical attacks won't work. You do magic?"
"…No."
"Then there's your answer."
Even his Phoenix powers weren't true magic. And he wasn't about to don the cloth and waste it on a personal vendetta.
Peter exhaled sharply. "Then what do we do?"
"Bargain." Hawk's eyes never left the witch. "Harry had uncles, didn't he?"
"At the funeral—they tried to challenge the will. Felicia kicked them out."
"Good enough."
Hawk stepped forward.
"We didn't know before. Now we do. We won't interfere again. The rest of the Osborns are yours. Carry on your vengeance. We'll stay out of it."
The witch's flames flickered.
Then, with a hiss of blue fire, she vanished.
…
(End of Chapter)
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