"Can't you… just tell me a little?" Sophia shrugged. "I think you should share your prophecy with more people in the Immortal City. My father did. According to the records, if it hadn't been for his vision, our ancestors never would have left Constantinople. Since his prophecy involved you, that makes yours credible, doesn't it?"
"No." Solomon shook his head. "We're in a war, and in war, deception must be used to the fullest. I must position myself as a chessmaster from a higher-dimensional perspective if we're going to win. You probably can't understand what I mean right now, because our enemy doesn't even exist within physical reality. Strike where they are unprepared, appear where they don't expect—you know the drill. I can't reveal any part of certain plans, not even a word, because they are everywhere."
"Oh, so it's about mystique, huh?" Sophia rolled her eyes.
When her father had told Solomon how he'd led their people away from Constantinople over a thousand years ago, Solomon had thought Jacob was incredibly skilled at leveraging mystery to persuade others. Most of the ancestors of the Siberian tribe had followed Jacob because of that aura of enigma. After receiving a formal education, Sophia had come to recognize it as a method of manipulation—she knew Solomon wasn't some benevolent savior. He had only saved her people because of Jacob. Obeying the master of the Immortal City was their only path to survival, a decision made a millennium ago. She had no choice but to follow orders.
Tossing her red braid, she sighed and stood up. She had joined Victoria Hand's assault on Trinity and knew full well that if it weren't for the Immortal City, Trinity would've sent armed helicopters and mercenaries to massacre her people. A lone Lara Croft would never have been able to offset such a military advantage.
"I want time off. I haven't seen Lara in forever." She thought about it and came up with something she had the authority to do. "Otherwise, I won't let my people participate in the upcoming urban warfare drills."
"Of course. I'd like to see her too. But only if you keep your people in line—and don't cause trouble near the barracks," the magus replied with a smile. "I hear your people drink more alcohol per month than the average Russian consumes daily. I can't have my soldiers being a bunch of drunks."
"We just add vodka to our tea. It's a traditional drink." Unbothered by the criticism, the girl—who had no Slavic blood—responded with a pride worthy of a Siberian native. "You should try it. Hot tea and hot liquor can save you from a frozen death."
This so-called traditional beverage of Sophia's people wasn't something everyone could enjoy. There was no standard recipe for it, and over a thousand years, many versions had emerged. Solomon had tasted the basic version thanks to Jacob's introduction. Though fragrant at first, drinking it was like swallowing fire. He couldn't help but wonder if the two tea leaves in the cup were just for show, and the rest was 70% alcohol.
Solomon had come to a disturbing realization: most of the women he knew had some degree of a drinking problem.
Athena and the witches drank wine like water. Wanda and Natasha Romanoff could down vodka capable of killing an elephant without flinching. That wasn't an exaggeration, especially for Wanda, who had learned a little spell to prevent herself from getting drunk and now drank with wild abandon. Solomon even regretted sharing the formula for Elixir of All Souls with her. Due to her constant potion brewing for class, he'd had to install a commercial-grade ventilation and air purification system in her penthouse to prevent the DEA from busting in.
And maybe the IRS too, since Wanda had never paid a cent in U.S. taxes on her salary.
"I heard," said Natasha Romanoff, expressionless as she downed a flaming glass of liquor. Her breath was hot and reeked of alcohol, and her skin was noticeably warmer—something Solomon picked up on with sharp sensitivity. After all, nothing offers better insight into body temperature than direct contact. If he were a mediocre poet, he might've said her breath was as hot as her figure.
He shook his head and tossed out the terrible metaphor.
"You acted in Hell's Kitchen."
"Is that such a big deal?" Solomon sounded genuinely surprised. He had expected Tony Stark to inform the others immediately upon returning to the Avengers facility upstate, so he had mentally prepared for a confrontation. But if it weren't for Natasha summoning him to her secret apartment, he wouldn't even know what the other Avengers thought of the matter.
"Not really. Both Tony and Steve are cautious when it comes to your actions," she said with a nasal sniffle. She poured herself another drink and, with a heavy nose, continued, "They just want to know why. You'd better have a good reason, or it'll be hard to explain why you deployed field artillery in an urban area. This wasn't just another gang fight. The state government wants to open an investigation."
"Did you check who's in charge of that investigation?"
The spy's eyes widened with sudden understanding.
"You stacked the board?" she muttered sourly. "You're growing faster than Hydra. We just finished cleaning them up, and now you're turning into the next one."
"Somebody has to fill the void, Natasha. That's the nature of politics and business in a democratic system. Legal bribery, rigged elections. It's the same now as it was in ancient Greece. Hydra or no Hydra, there's always the Skull & Bones Society, Jewish financiers, or the military-industrial complex. Someone always steps in."
"You're getting political again. We agreed not to talk about this stuff," Natasha frowned.
Clearly, her home remedy hadn't worked. Per their agreement, she would have to take Solomon's specially brewed cold medicine. Unfortunately, the potion looked absolutely vile—yellow-green sludge, steaming like swamp water, and smelling like fermented cabbage. The moment she opened the bottle, she visibly recoiled.
"I have to drink this?" she groaned, pressing herself deeper into the couch.
"It'll clear your sinuses in ten minutes. I don't know why you insist on running around in winter wearing skin-tight leather. You're practically asking to get sick."
"I was on a mission. What, you want me to wear armor instead?"
"Yes," Solomon said with a grin. "In fact, I already prepared your Christmas gift. Maybe I should give it to you early."
(End of Chapter)
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