"Constantine, get me today's planetary defense divination report from the New York Sanctum—just the part covering the battle's timeframe. It should be twelve-inch parchment, stamped by Master Daniel Drumm. Sorry, darling, but I need to check L.A. local news. I want to see with my own eyes if the public saw anything. Wanda, continue. Stephanie has already called a city councilman in L.A., the police won't arrest you or the Ghost Rider. But to be safe, a law firm employed by the Eternal City is en route to assist you. Whatever the police ask, insist on waiting for your lawyer. I don't want to see you get detained." Solomon covered the mic. "Get in touch with the agent assigned to monitoring Wanda. Damn it, something like this happened and no one notified me?"
"Please don't blame Victoria Hand, my lord," the Royal Guard suddenly cut into the comms channel. "Not everyone can work twenty-four hours a day like we do. Being overly harsh will only hurt your command in the long run. It is my duty as your advisor to remind you of this, is it not? Miss Wanda Maximoff, please stay calm. The Eternal City won't let anything happen to you."
A moment of silence passed through the channel.
Solomon had to admit privately that he'd made a mistake—he'd forgotten the gap between himself and normal people. Holding others to his own standards was never something to be proud of, especially since Victoria Hand had handled a great deal today. Being too critical would be unfair. "Fine. Find an excuse to give Agent Hand a day off," he muttered. "But not today. Internal purges aren't an excuse to delay intel. Put the details on tomorrow's to-do list. Let this be the last time."
He tried leaning back into the couch cushions, hoping to give his spine some relief. That morning, during the Skrull purge op, the only thing he'd had to lean on was a boulder. Now he was wondering what kind of gift would be appropriate for Agent Hand.
"Okay, Wanda, keep going. Don't waste time."
—
"Whoa whoa whoa! Mr. Reyes!" Wanda raised her arm to shield her face as waves of scorching air blew toward her. Her skin felt dry, oily, as if she'd been dumped into a summer noon. Her pores opened, sweat pouring out. A small flame clung to her palm, but an invisible membrane separated it from her skin. All she got was a minor burn—like touching a car hood after it had sat in the sun all day. Painful, yes, but not debilitating.
She could still cast spells to protect herself.
Just as Kamar-Taj trained its sorcerers to fight while enduring pain, Solomon had held Wanda to the same standard. Back when the Maximoff siblings were still locked in the castle dungeon, he'd jabbed her skin with fine needles repeatedly until she could chant spells through the pain. Eventually, the lessons escalated into a mental whip used by mages to drive their servants—a training version, of course. Compared to the original, it was the difference between torn flesh and a feather's touch.
Compared to that brain-stabbing torment, this little burn was nothing.
"I need you to calm down, Robbie Reyes!" Wanda inhaled the searing air, catching a whiff of sun-baked concrete. She stepped back, hands down, squinting at the skeleton emerging from the fire. "I don't want to hurt you. Stop! Stay there—I won't say it again!"
"Chaos…" the Ghost Rider, engulfed in fire, kept advancing. Wanda extended her hand, and a staff as tall as she was appeared out of thin air. She gripped it tightly. The staff was topped with a silver-plated serpent skull encased in a thick steel ring, four metal spikes extending outward in a cruciform pattern. She had first wielded it during the angel attack in New York, and since then, this weapon—crafted personally by Solomon—had been hers.
It was a fully hybrid tool: a spellcasting focus and a brutal melee weapon. Being hit by its spiked crown was like getting smashed by a warhammer.
The red anti-slip cord wound tightly around the shaft tore open the burn blister on her palm. Blood seeped into the grip. The smell of scorched paint and the pain itself ignited her will to fight.
The sound of rustling parchment interrupted the moment. Solomon was flipping pages.
"We know the outcome, Wanda. What we want to know is how you put the Ghost Rider in the ICU. Bloody hell—was another faction involved? Why isn't there any local news about this? Get intel on who else might've interfered in this."
"Wow. Almost every bone broken. Blunt force trauma to the skull, puncture wounds. No organic brain damage—probably because there was no brain at the time. If Robbie Reyes survives, it'll be thanks to that." Jeanne pointed to the medical report, her expression more animated than during her favorite TV shows. "Looks like Wanda really went all in. Bet she slammed the staff right into the Ghost Rider's skull. Cereza, this is exactly what we taught her. She learns fast."
Bayonetta took the report, positively glowing with pride—like Wanda was her own apprentice.
"I pinned Robbie Reyes under a house until he was too exhausted to maintain form," Wanda said. The toes of her high boots tapped together under the hospital hallway's harsh lighting. "I brought him to the hospital before the police showed up. We fought for almost thirty minutes, and no police came. This is the slums, Master—cops don't come here at night. They were already handling three shootings tonight—this wasn't even on their radar."
"I still say she cracked his skull with the staff until he couldn't regenerate," Jeanne said mercilessly. "I admire that approach, but remember—magic is important too. Use more magic, Wanda. You're a witch!"
And it was true—Wanda had no idea where she found the strength. She had her eyes shut and was screaming while flailing the staff, completely unsure what she was hitting.
Once Solomon confirmed that the battle hadn't echoed into the astral plane or been picked up by the media, he finally relaxed. He tossed aside the parchment and paper reports and melted back into his seat like he was still watching TV. Bayonetta subtly loosened the sash of her silk nightrobe and silently leaned closer.
She was quite certain it was bedroom time now.
"You talk like you didn't cause problems. That fight ignited six houses, blew up at least three propane tanks and four cars—five separate explosions total. You're lucky no one lived there, or we'd be cleaning up a manslaughter case too. Now we'll coordinate with the police to claim it was a natural gas line explosion."
"Master, I have one last question. What is chaos? Why did the Ghost Rider keep repeating that word?" Wanda asked. "I'm sure he wanted to kill me. Robbie Reyes had no control over it at all."
"You'll understand in time, my diligent apprentice. But now, get back to your mission. I need that contract," Solomon said, glancing at Bayonetta and Jeanne, signaling them to stay quiet. "This new Ghost Rider is too weak to cause serious trouble. I suggest visiting Gabe Reyes. Then bring Robbie back to the hospital before he wakes up—it'll help your case. Go, girl. I won't be here to hold your hand forever. You've got to start making your own decisions."
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