From a purely practical standpoint, the alchemical golem was one of Solomon's finest creations in recent years.
Unlike other alchemical constructs—such as humanoid androids—the alchemical golem carried a fragment of Solomon's own personality. Compared to the high cost and rare materials needed to create an android, the golem was far more economical, being composed mainly of ordinary ice and snow. The only expensive components were its internal mechanical systems, which could be recovered and reused after the golem melted. If there were days when Solomon didn't need to attend rowing team practice, fencing training, or lab sessions, the golem would stand in for him in class, carrying the essays he had written and bringing knowledge back from Oxford. Afterward, the golem would lie in a freezer, melt back into its raw components, and be cleaned to form the next one.
Of course, sometimes Oxford students would see two Solomons at once. After all, the golem only handled the mundane—true learning still had to be done in person.
If some bored spellcaster ever started a TV channel, Solomon could easily do an episode titled How to Make an Alchemical Golem Using a Home Freezer. He was confident the show's practical, budget-friendly tone would make it wildly popular among magical housewives. After all, raising kids and doing housework were just as exhausting in the magical world. A golem could handle most chores—and even knew just how hard to spank a child when needed.
But the troubles Solomon now faced were not ones an alchemical golem could fix.
Athena and the witches could immediately tell a golem from the real thing—it radiated magical light. He couldn't fake his way through the gala, nor could he stuff champagne into the golem's mouth. Lacking a stomach, most of what it "drank" would just dribble back out.
He hated banquets and artists. But he knew this event was meant to celebrate Vanessa's recovery, so the praise and flattery might be toned down a bit. The witches, though fond of any opportunity to show off their beauty, weren't exactly lovers of gala dinners—they simply found it hard to say no to Athena, who insisted on calling herself Solomon's adoptive mother. Not that Solomon believed a word of it. He also suspected the witches intended to buy a few paintings to hang on the estate's still-bare walls. Most of the original art had been stolen by American soldiers during World War II.
Fortunately, the witches shared Solomon's views on modern art. They preferred baroque or gothic pieces. In their era, anyone who taped a banana to a wall and called it "art" would have been whipped on the spot.
"He's a member of the fencing team—I guarantee he's the best they have," Athena announced, as proudly as if she were showing off a knighted medal. It seemed she wanted nothing more than to pin Solomon to her chest and parade him through a crowd of mediocrity, blinding the gathered artists and socialites with his brilliance. As expected, the moment the gala began, flattery latched onto the Arcanist like a leech—relentless and unavoidable. The witches stifled their laughter. They loved watching Solomon squirm in front of Athena. And, of course, he'd have to help her fend off overeager suitors—some of whom were so persistent or high-ranking that Solomon had to issue warnings via bullets. When it came to the witches' admirers, however, he preferred automatic weapons.
Clean, fast. A standard-issue Eternal City flamethrower would be even better.
The Arcanist wore a carefully constructed smile as he slipped his arm around Bayonetta's narrow waist.
The witch hadn't expected to be dragged into this flattery circus, but she adapted quickly. Confidence came naturally with height—she, Jeanne, and Athena were the tallest women in the room, towering even over the statuesque supermodels brought by billionaires. And Solomon was the tallest and strongest of all, like a lion surveying a flock of sheep from atop a high rock.
Bayonetta's black, high-slit, backless gown was held together on the sides by little more than a few taut cords, flaunting every elegant curve of her witch's physique. Under Solomon's hand, there wasn't an ounce of excess flesh. He had picked the dress randomly from her endless wardrobe, and he was honestly surprised it hadn't fallen off yet.
"Of course, Mother," he said. "I promise this year the Cambridge bookworms will be thoroughly humiliated."
They finally managed to shake off the swarm of artists trying to start conversations. Young, well-dressed, and adorned in just enough jewelry, they looked like prime targets for buyers of "avant-garde" art. Many of the struggling artists were desperate for a patron. Yet when they so much as hinted at their work, Solomon would pinpoint whether the pieces had ever been exhibited, and where. For any charlatan hoping to sneak by, the previously polite Arcanist would transform into a ruthless critic. His disinterest was palpable, and he was impossible to fool. Many fled like pigs chased by a boar.
"I'm quite pleased with your choice of dress, darling," Bayonetta whispered, hiding her mouth behind a champagne glass as she nibbled on Solomon's ear. "Jeanne is too—she asked me to thank you on her behalf. Aren't you being a bit hasty?"
"You're carrying a dagger?" Solomon murmured. He hadn't expected Bayonetta to conceal a blade in the layered folds of her Victorian-inspired black gown.
"I could kiss you right now," he added.
"I wouldn't mind." Bayonetta arched an eyebrow with a teasing gleam. Her stilettos made no sound against the plush wool carpeting on the terrace. That dress—scandalously beautiful—barely contained a scrap of fabric underneath.
"This is a hotel."
"There you are! Minerva said you were off making out with your girlfriend!"
"You brought your partner, Vanessa," Solomon said, turning politely. As host, he was obliged to greet the guest of honor. His height allowed him to spot people across the crowd by the tops of their heads. Vanessa wore a simple white gown that didn't make her complexion look too pale. Bayonetta gave her a polite nod—they had met before in Athena's apartment and apparently had a decent conversation.
"Wilson Fisk doesn't seem to fit in here," Solomon noted.
"I have faith in him." Just out of the hospital, Vanessa looked pale, but kept smiling.
"You're still trying to find him a patron," Solomon said bluntly.
He didn't need telepathy. The moment he learned this gala and charity auction had been arranged by Athena for Vanessa, he'd known her intentions instantly. There were not only starving artists here—but also the final-stage capitalists Solomon loathed. Those were the ones who lusted for art the most—especially the kind no one understood. After all, if everyone could understand it, how would the rich distinguish themselves from the poor?
These were Vanessa's targets. If Fisk could serve their interests, the Hell's Kitchen thug and criminal could be repackaged into a valuable white-gloved proxy. Bayonetta hadn't fully understood, until Solomon passed her a magical whisper explaining who Fisk really was and what he represented.
"I'm going to die anyway," Vanessa said, "so why shouldn't I do something first?"
"I understand your thinking, but I don't support it."
"Would you kill me?" she asked bitterly, peering at him through the rim of her wine glass.
"You succeeded. You're an accomplice now." Solomon nodded and began to walk away with Bayonetta, their body language making their stance unmistakable.
Vanessa understood perfectly.
"I see. I won't complain about dying. From now on, his blood debt will be mine too."
(End of Chapter)
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