When the alarm rang, Wanda was still a little dazed, but the moment she opened her eyes, she immediately realized where she was.
The floor wasn't cold as it typically would be in winter—there was no icy chill crawling up from her feet to her skull. The room's air was warm and slightly humid. Thanks to the tireless efforts of the underfloor heating and humidifier, she didn't wake up to the dry, flaky skin she usually got this time of year. She stretched lazily, only to freeze up like a wound-up clockwork doll that had been abruptly halted when a knock came at the door.
"Wanda, we're heading out," came Solomon's voice from behind the door. "Move quickly. The gunship's already hovering upstairs. We've got to leave before dawn!"
"Wait! I'm not dressed yet!"
"I told you not to sleep naked…" Solomon's voice drifted away.
Blushing furiously, Wanda jumped out of bed and scrambled to get into the uniform laid out nearby. It was a fresh one—her outfit from yesterday's operation was still sitting in the laundry hamper back in her apartment. She muttered curses under her breath, unable to understand how Solomon and the witches could make such a racket last night and still have the energy to be up and about this early—and worse, come knocking on her door. After a hasty wash and a rushed bite of breakfast, she followed the fully-dressed Solomon out the door.
The shriek of the gunship's engines and the whipping winds forced her to hold down her hair to keep the simple bun Dana had tied from unraveling. Solomon had no intention of opening a portal, so the gunship—capable of exoatmospheric flight—was the standard mode of travel. Fully armed, this gunship could exit Earth's atmosphere and fly a suborbital path like a ballistic missile, delivering its passengers to their destination in an incredibly short time. Its cutting-edge anti-detection system also ensured it remained completely invisible to U.S. Air Force radar.
"My Lord," the security android saluted Solomon from the ramp, fully equipped for combat. To Wanda's surprise, the golden-armored Royal Guards were also present. Constantine stood silently to the side, only responding once Solomon approached. Solomon nodded at him, then called out to Wanda behind him, "You still have three hours of sleep time left—I suggest you make good use of it."
"You still haven't told me what we're doing!"
The ramp doors slowly closed, muting the roar of the engines.
Wanda hurried to fasten her safety harness, only to immediately feel a crushing force pressing her into Solomon's shoulder. She couldn't see anything outside the heavily armored shell, but she knew that soon, the ablation armor would glow red-hot from atmospheric friction. The kind of acceleration they were experiencing wasn't something a human body could tolerate, but the pilot wasn't concerned with that. The so-called "rest well" was a joke—no ordinary human could rest aboard a gunship.
But there were no ordinary humans aboard this gunship. The androids weren't. The Royal Guards weren't. Solomon wasn't. And she wasn't either. The temporary physical enhancement spell Solomon had taught her was already active, barely suppressing her nausea and preventing her from passing out from the G-forces.
"London. My arrangements failed," Solomon muttered, both irritated and slightly pleased. "I didn't expect that detective to find the wrong thing so quickly. Now the vampires in the London sewers have started to move."
"Who?"
"That's not for you to know, Wanda," Solomon replied, glancing at her meaningfully. "In any case, today we're going to start a massacre. But before that, we need to pull someone out of police custody—before MI6 catches on. The London Sanctum is already in motion. Our contact in MI6 can buy us twelve hours."
"You're coming with us?" Wanda asked.
"No. I'm going to meet someone." Solomon's mood soured just thinking about it.
The reason the Immortal City's insider could stall for twelve hours was thanks to this man's tacit approval. The reason Sherlock Holmes had managed to leap past Solomon's designs and head straight for the truth was also because of him. Back when Solomon was still attending Eton, he had been introduced to this man by the headmaster. The goal: to recruit him. Upon completing his undergraduate studies, he would enter Whitehall as a civil servant—more precisely, join MI6 and conduct intelligence work among the political elite.
Solomon rarely spoke of that meeting. It had been one of the few times he'd encountered someone who could match him intellectually. The man had bluntly said that he didn't expect to catch any fish with the bait he scattered—because the real bait was on the hooks hidden in the dark. The only reason he'd approached Solomon was because he'd chatted amicably with a certain royal princess at a classmate's party, and this man wanted to recruit him as an asset.
Solomon didn't bring the Royal Guards to the meeting. He ordered them to carry out their mission instead. He himself leapt straight from the ramp and, with a flash of light, appeared in an abandoned building on the outskirts of London. Adjusting his cuffs, Solomon looked at the man in the shadows—a man who, in a way, had been a mentor to him, at least when it came to suit etiquette. That was why Solomon had specifically chosen a suit for this meeting.
"I didn't expect you to meet me in a place like this."
"Still holding a grudge over my past judgment of you, Solomon? You think someone personally approached by the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. would go unnoticed? There's no combat route through this area today, yet I still heard the engine noise. Do you have a fighter jet now?" The man in the suit stepped forward, leaning on an umbrella. His attire had not a single wrinkle, as if London's damp, cold weather had no effect on his gentlemanly refinement. Yet, true to the tradition of British gentlemen, his hairline was alarmingly receded.
"This some kind of revenge? Getting my overly curious younger brother tangled up in some unspeakable secret? Navy-striped suit, brass cufflinks, Oxford shoes—nice ensemble. When I heard you were studying the sciences, I was worried you'd turn out like those MIT freaks in tank tops."
"I'm giving your brother a broader world," Solomon said as he strode forward. "Must you be so overbearing, Mycroft Holmes, lowly Cabinet clerk? You don't seem nearly as casual as you pretend to be. If I'm not mistaken, there's a sword hidden in your umbrella."
"And you brought a sword too, Mr. Damonet," the man replied with a smile. "Am I really that dangerous?"
"Anyone who hides a gun in their umbrella handle shouldn't talk about danger," Solomon retorted. "But I'm not here to argue with you, Mycroft. I need your help keeping this quiet."
"I already have," Mycroft said, tapping the concrete floor with the tip of his umbrella. "But I need you to explain—why did you want Sherlock involved with vampires? Don't you know what kind of disaster his curiosity could cause?"
"I do. And I thank you for your help. But I want him to suffer—because he has the potential to bear a greater burden." Solomon stepped forward, showing he carried no weapons. "I need everyone's help, Mycroft—including yours. The door I've opened for Sherlock Holmes… is also open to you."
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