The Cheshire Cat tried to lick the piece of chocolate on Jeanne's fingertips, but the witch firmly pressed its head down.
This fat cat was completely devoid of elegance—it was a gluttonous, lazy, and constantly grumbling fae feline. Its belly was stuffed with premium cat food, it leaped from one couch to another, and it shed fur everywhere. It had no redeeming qualities, embodying every flaw a cat could possibly have. The only enjoyable thing about it was its plump, cylindrical body, which made it the perfect plush toy for the witches.
Diana, ignoring the cat's struggles, picked it up from the witch's lap and began vigorously brushing its belly. The flying cat hairs had offended her sacred master. At least these stray hairs could be used as nesting material for the pixies lingering at the apartment entrance, keeping the mischievous creatures from dirtying the floors.
Solomon pulled a chair up next to Bayonetta and placed a light kiss on her outstretched, pale hand. "Madam, what movie are we watching tonight?" He spoke in French—the common language of the apartment, which Bayonetta understood perfectly.
"Something to wake me up, hopefully," the sorcerer replied. "I need something a little stimulating."
"Then you should go find your own tree." (A reference to The Count of Monte Cristo.) The flickering images from the projector cast shifting light onto the witch's face. Thanks to the superior genes of the Umbra Witches, Bayonetta was stunning even in dim lighting. Especially when she widened her eyes—her classic beauty became almost endearingly cute. As a mark of her contract with demons, Bayonetta's beauty mark was at the corner of her mouth, while Jeanne's was just below her eye.
"Tonight, we're watching Breakfast at Tiffany's."
"If this is a tribute to Givenchy, then I can accept it. I trust Audrey Hepburn's fashion sense. Perhaps we can take inspiration from the off-shoulder dress in Sabrina for your next gown," Solomon switched back to English. "Oh, I still remember the theme song! 'Wherever you're going, I'm going your way. Two drifters, off to see the world…'"
"My, my, I didn't expect you to know Moon River." Bayonetta grinned, popping a piece of chocolate into Solomon's mouth. "That's my favorite song!"
Jeanne stomped her foot in protest. "Hey! You two! We're supposed to be watching the movie!"
"Apologies," Solomon raised an eyebrow, though his face showed no regret. He noticed Diana was still busy brushing the Cheshire Cat, so he summoned an invisible servant to pour champagne for himself and the witch. "To a wonderful evening," he said, downing the chilled drink in one gulp and exhaling deeply. "To relaxation."
"Magic formations are like engines, and magic power is the fuel. The reason I keep repeating this is because it's important. To run an engine, you need to supply a precise amount of fuel. Without my guidance, you just dumped the fuel all over the place."
Solomon looked down at the ruined wooden block at his feet and shook his head in exasperation. His tone carried a hint of disappointment. He had taken time out of his packed schedule to check on Wanda Maximoff, only to find that she had failed to complete the assignment he had left her.
The block looked as though it had been crushed in a hydraulic press. If not for the remnants of red-painted letters, it would have been impossible to tell that the jagged, splintered mess had once been a toy block.
Wanda's expression was one of embarrassment.
When this strange power had first emerged within her, she had never considered controlling it. She didn't know what her magic could do, nor did she understand why Solomon insisted that she master it. Every time she asked, he would simply scan her body with that cold, predatory gaze—like a hunter sizing up its prey.
There were things about Wanda Maximoff that remained a mystery, and Solomon wasn't about to reveal the truth to her just yet.
The most suitable textbook for her was not some standard spellbook, but The Darkhold—a compilation of The Dark Scrolls of Chthon, edited by Morgan le Fay. Every vampire and werewolf that roamed this world owed their existence to that ancient entity. Wanda didn't even need complex incantations; she could wield Chthon's power instinctively.
That book was one of Solomon's long-term objectives, but with so few clues, he had been forced to put the search on hold. Even if The Darkhold were in his possession, he wouldn't give it to Wanda. Everyone who had ever studied The Darkhold had ended up belonging to Chthon.
Without exception, the Great Shadow always collected its debts. Solomon believed that Chthon was eager to reclaim the soul of the tool he had crafted—Wanda. There was even a chance that, under the right circumstances, The Darkhold or scattered Dark Scrolls might suddenly appear before her, tempting her to study them.
As long as Wanda Maximoff had not read The Darkhold, her soul remained free. The cost of her magic could still be repaid through other means.
Every time Solomon visited her, he brought a living rabbit. He made Wanda tighten her grip, slowly strangling the innocent creature. He demanded that she never look away, that she fully experience the suffering of her victim. And as payment, the animals he brought would not always be rabbits.
Until he fully understood the intentions of the Great Shadow, Solomon would do everything in his power to keep this tool from falling into its creator's hands. The method may have seemed cruel to ordinary people, but it was preferable to letting her soul be claimed by a dark god.
"Have you ever paid a price?" Wanda asked, holding the dead rabbit.
"I have," Solomon replied. "At birth. During my first mission. I have stared death in the face more times than I can count—that is the price I have paid. And you, Wanda Maximoff, are paying your own bill."
There was an unspoken warning in his words—he had hinted time and again that Wanda's magic could one day put her brother's life at risk.
"If you don't pay now, then when the entity that granted you this magic comes to collect, it won't be satisfied with just a few dead rabbits."
"Must I really do this?" Wanda asked. "Who exactly is coming to collect the debt?"
"That is not your concern. Your concern is learning how to wield your power." Solomon dismissed her question. "Perhaps building an engine is too complex for you at this stage, so tell me, Maximoff—do you know how to make a Molotov cocktail?"
Solomon skipped his usual reprimand and went straight into the lesson.
"You have already grasped some basic applications, and your ability in mind control developed instinctively. But let me be honest—you have terrible energy control. That is what you must focus on in your training."
"Not all energy should be recklessly thrown around. That's what barbarians do. Even a barbarian uses a club, but you—you're just swinging around a twig. You and I are both arcane sorcerers; our magic simply comes from different sources."
Solomon deliberately adopted the tone of a potion professor from a classic children's book, elongating his words with elegant pauses.
"You will learn how to shape the energy in your hands, how to stretch your limited power into extraordinary feats. Step by step—you will first learn to craft weapons from your energy, then to mold your body with void energy. You will learn to see through darkness, to unravel deception. You will master gravity, and how to survive in the vacuum of space. You will learn to draw strength from pain, hatred, faith, and peace. You will learn to wield your intellect as a weapon to achieve your goals."
"Work harder, Maximoff," Solomon said. "You have much to learn. But before that—let's have some roast rabbit."
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