"You always assume the regime is as unshakable as a mountain, Mycroft," Solomon said, scornful of Mycroft's overconfidence. He pointed to Mycroft's arrogance with a flourish of his own. "You prance around in Whitehall's shadows as if no one can see your clumsy steps, as if you can dodge every blade. And yet you believe I wouldn't let one or two vampires loose in Whitehall just to destroy the very heart of the British government—your cozy little nest."
"Chaos benefits you nothing. I know you well enough to understand that if you wanted to sow chaos, this wouldn't be your method. I know that, and you know I know," Mycroft shrugged. "We share the same goals, Solomon. We both carry secrets. So why don't we be a little more candid? Fill in the gaps from those puzzles I never solved years ago. What's your real relationship with S.H.I.E.L.D., or rather, with Nick Fury? Why did MI6 discover you existing simultaneously at two ends of the Earth? Let me venture a hypothesis—perhaps one of those Solomons was a fake. Or maybe, more intriguingly, both were real. I don't understand the mechanism. That's why I want answers. Isn't that the whole point of this exchange?"
"Considering I've found your blood relative, I'll tell you what you're allowed to know. That, at least, would be fair," Solomon replied calmly, ignoring the calculating gleam in Mycroft's eyes. "I was present at the Battle of New York. That's why the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. came looking for me. And yes, you're right—the Solomon in New York and the one in Oxford were both me. But just like stage magic, what seems astounding at first becomes mundane once you understand the trick."
"Magic," Mycroft muttered. "That's why you've come for my foolish brother. You've already shown me once—in the library. Now everything makes sense. I've read Maugham's The Magician, yet you don't even bother speaking in metaphor or riddles. This turns everything I believed on its head."
"Nick Fury also thought I was some cave-dwelling sorcerer at first," Solomon laughed. His time with Fury had been turbulent but enjoyable—rare camaraderie. "That's an exaggeration. The intelligence quotient in your family is already at the apex of human potential."
Mycroft sprang from his chair.
Without hesitation, he pulled a blade from the handle of his umbrella and pointed the slender sword at Solomon's throat. Only then did the wineglass he had discarded crash to the floor, shattering into pieces and staining the expensive wool carpet. The civil servant moved with agility that belied his appearance, but Solomon didn't even glance at him. For a battle-hardened mage who had walked over mountains of corpses, Mycroft's threat—and his little sword—were laughably feeble.
Mycroft was deeply tense. Solomon had hit a nerve. He wasn't afraid Solomon would expose his black-site prison or the fact that he had locked up his sister. What truly terrified him was the idea that Solomon might release her. Her mind was orders of magnitude more dangerous than Sherlock's. Sherlock's so-called antisocial personality was child's play compared to hers.
"Secrets must be exchanged for secrets. Don't think you're the only one who can guard them," Solomon said coldly. "You sabotaged my plans, Mycroft. Someone has to pay the price."
"You don't understand how evil she is," Mycroft growled, struggling to calm his breathing.
"Magic is born from intense emotional triggers—fanatic faith, overwhelming curiosity, or soul-deep hatred. Not every prophecy said you'd ruin my plans, but I made contingencies. A gunship reached the waters near your prison last night. It can deploy at any time," Solomon said flatly. "I chose Sherlock because he has a sense of responsibility, talent, and curiosity. That last trait is problematic, yes, but I believe with training he'll learn control. You and your sister both have talent. Since you disrupted the selection process, I'm left with no choice. Your sister is more gifted—and easier to manage."
He glanced at his watch and pointed to the ringing phone beside them. "You can answer that now. Thirty seconds ago, the gunship opened fire as planned—a warning burst that took out the prison's anti-air defenses. Don't worry, it's not a call from Downing Street. My people traced the caller. Want me to tell you which of your men inside the prison it is?"
"You don't understand her evil, Solomon," Mycroft repeated, not moving toward the phone. "Don't go near her. She'll kill everyone."
"Then help me. Help me fix your mistake. Let me continue guiding your brother down the right path."
"You must tell me what risks are involved."
"Only the possibility of sacrificing himself to save humanity—same as me. It's not so bad. At least it'll widen his perspective far beyond the petty borders of this little island empire of yours. But don't you dare try to profit from him. That's forbidden. The magical world is a thoroughly feudal society, built on social Darwinism and survival of the fittest. Power is law. If I change identities and you speak to me like this again, I will have the right to kill you. And if he ever helps you profit in the mortal world, I will have the right to kill him too."
Mycroft said nothing. Slowly, he lowered his umbrella sword—not of his own volition, but because the man before him had begun to change, transforming into something beyond his understanding, beyond his knowledge.
"You're a general now, Cabinet Secretary. It's your move," the mage said unhurriedly. "Oh, and those SAS soldiers seeking vengeance? They're mine now. Including their families. I happen to need experienced veterans as instructors."
"Your families have been taken care of," Constantine said as he crouched beside a few anxious soldiers. They had never truly intended to take revenge on Mycroft. That narrative had been Solomon's lie, a way to help them legally retire without being branded traitors. Mycroft's power had filled them with anger, but the audio recording Solomon had given them had made them abandon their loyalty to the British Empire. They had boarded the Immortal City's gunship in a haze of disbelief, and Constantine's words finally allowed them to relax.
"We've prepared new homes for you—just bring your bags and move in. Your kids will attend private schools in the U.S., and if they perform well, they'll have jobs waiting for them at our companies," the royal guard said. "There's even a pension plan—coverage until age 150."
"Who the hell are you people?" one soldier with a thick London accent asked as he looked around. He was shocked to find the women in sleek black power armor were all stunningly young and beautiful. These girls had just butchered monsters in the sewers, but aside from the smell of blood and burnt flesh, their faces were clean enough to hit the high street. "And what the hell were those monsters? I know you—I saw you in Sokovia, on TV. You weren't holding that stick back then." He turned to Wanda. "You're not the Avengers, are you? Is your boss Tony Stark or something? Are you even human?"
"No," Wanda Maximoff said, frowning as she cleaned dirt from her tangled hair. "We're nothing like that childish bunch."
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