"We need him, Constantine. Calm down—your adrenaline levels are abnormal."
Despite having a high-caliber explosive gun pointed at her—and knowing full well that Constantine would pull the trigger—Wanda Maximoff still gathered her courage and stepped forward without flinching. She skirted around the still-burning Ghost Rider, though the temperature in the lab remained scorching. The only ventilation shaft had already been buried beneath the concrete rubble.
Constantine could see the beads of sweat forming on her forehead.
But the Praetorian Guard did not attribute it to the heat. In his eyes, the sweating was caused by the anxiety of betraying their Sovereign. His job had trained him to distrust everyone not in service to the Sovereign, and the barrel of his gun remained locked on Wanda. Even though explosive rounds caused excessive damage to human bodies, and even though the Praetorian Guard—Immortal City's strongest heavy infantry unit—could easily wipe out a modern military team armed with light armor and man-portable anti-tank weapons, Constantine still wasn't certain his weapon was enough if Wanda Maximoff gave it her all. He had evaluated Wanda's threat level as roughly half of what the Sovereign had currently demonstrated—factoring in her lack of dangerous knowledge and combat experience. Even so, he treated her as a formidable enemy, focusing his investigations on her and trying to identify the fastest, most effective way to incapacitate her.
As Wanda stepped closer and reached out a hand to calm him, Constantine immediately became alert.
"Don't try to cast a spell on me, witch! Or I will kill you on the spot," he said coldly. "And my adrenaline levels are perfectly normal. They are part of the physiological functions granted to me by our Lord."
The Scarlet Witch shrugged, trying to appear relaxed.
The air was far from pleasant. Sulfur and airborne dust particles had pushed the particulate concentration off the charts. Her throat itched, and she fought the urge to cough or sneeze, but she pressed on—afraid that the Praetorian might act rashly. Ironically, her restraint only made him more tense. Constantine kept a close watch on Ghost Rider, terrified the restraining spell might fail at any moment.
"Robbie Reyes can't yet control the Spirit of Vengeance," she explained, hurriedly wiping away sweat before it trickled into her eyes. "When he transforms into Ghost Rider, he loses most of his memory. The Spirit only follows his deepest, most primal intentions. I can bring him back—once he's aware again, he won't be your enemy. He's naturally drawn to that magical book—we need him. And I already saved you once: the transformed Quinjet outside, I destroyed it."
Constantine glanced at her, half convinced.
"You get one chance," he said. "The Sovereign tolerated your failure—but I will not."
Wanda Maximoff finally allowed herself to cough. She doubled over, hacking for a long moment before standing again, wiping tears from her eyes. In a hoarse voice, she said, "No, you won't—because your master trusts me. He's a kind man. He understands why I did what I did. Gabe needed his brother. Otherwise, that boy would've starved to death in that house—and you know that's the truth. If Salomon were here, he would have made the same choice I did: Robbie Reyes must live."
Constantine gave no direct response, but he did offer Wanda enough space to act.
For the next six minutes, he kept his heavy weapon leveled and his muscles taut—more vigilant now than he had been in combat. Once the Spirit of Vengeance was present in this realm, it wasn't easy to expel. As with all rites to banish extradimensional entities, the caster needed to battle the spirit on a mental plane. The difficulty of banishing a Spirit of Vengeance rivaled that of banishing a demon and was far greater than exorcising a wandering soul. However, the ritual time was shorter: it only required Robbie Reyes to regain his awareness.
Constantine watched as the witch drew a silver ceremonial dagger etched with fine runes and sliced open her wrist. Clenching her fist, she walked a circle around Ghost Rider, using her dripping blood and the blade to draw a simple magic array on the floor.
A hexagram, reverse-written divine names at the four cardinal points, a structure designed to empower the caster while cutting off the spirit's access to outer-dimensional energy. Wanda didn't even pause to stop her bleeding—she began the ritual immediately, chanting incantations as blood streamed from her wrist.
Though Constantine wasn't a spellcaster himself, his magical knowledge—thanks to his access to Immortal City's classified library—was more than sufficient to interpret the ritual. He didn't relax for even a moment. If the banishment failed, the Spirit's power might transfer to Wanda, and then his only option would be to shoot her while she was distracted.
As the ritual progressed, Constantine reached under his crimson cloak and grasped the hilt of a weapon strapped to his magnetic utility belt. Even though his fingers were encased in armor and mechanical joints, he could still feel the chilling cold radiating from it. This pistol hadn't been registered in the arsenal—it had been personally crafted by the Sovereign of Immortal City and entrusted to Constantine as a final trump card when facing casters. He had brought it specifically for this mission.
And that wasn't his only contingency.
As part of the operation's preplanning, a Praetorian battlefield-support satellite hovered high above the stratosphere, ready to launch an electromagnetic railgun strike guided by the beacon embedded in Constantine's armor. Even if Wanda Maximoff had some way of escaping, she would not survive that unexpected and precise kill shot.
"What are they doing?" Fitz stared at the grainy footage transmitted by the micro-drone. He had found his little invention in an undamaged tool chest in the corridor, and Mike immediately decided they should hide and observe what was happening inside the lab. Due to the darkness, the video was full of noise and distortion, and they couldn't see the blood dripping from Wanda's hand—only her circling Ghost Rider while the man in golden power armor remained on high alert.
"Can you hear what they're saying?" Mike asked. "Monkey Boy, did you turn on the receiver?"
"It's on." Fitz cranked the audio dial on the control panel to maximum volume, but the drone's mic only picked up piercing static. He tried several more times—changing channels and filtering frequencies—but got the same result. "Could be the mic's busted. Or dust might've clogged it—this vent system hasn't been used in years," Fitz muttered in frustration. "This is my only drone, and the new director cut all our funding..."
"Hey, Monkey Boy. We're lucky we found a working vent—stop whining. At least we can still see something." Mike leaned in closer and eventually snatched the control pad from Fitz, enlarging the video while watching the drone's sensor readouts. Fitz stood on his tiptoes to get a better view. "What did you find?"
"Temperature," Mike said with a frown, pointing at the rising numbers. "Watch the temperature."
They stared at the screen as Wanda kept circling. When she came around again, they saw firelight ignite in her eyes.
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