"You reek of blood and sweat—go take a shower," the Sorcerer Supreme said, waving her hand dismissively. The foul stench of coagulated blood and perspiration from battling dark magic creatures was unbearable, even for vampires, let alone ordinary people.
"And one more thing," she added just before Solomon left. "Athena told me that you don't need to go back to the orphanage tonight. Lorna is already home safely. For now, the wise goddess of war will personally hunt down those fools. Rest assured, they won't get past her."
"You should know my anger stems from guilt," Solomon said before stepping out. "Marduk's target is me. Mephisto's target is also me. They're using me as a pawn to take a seat at the table. If my actions caused harm to those innocent children, I could never forgive myself."
"Tasting guilt is a good thing," the Ancient One replied. "But right now, what you need most is to get yourself cleaned up. The world doesn't stop spinning just because you take a moment to step away. Stop holding grudges and go enjoy dinner with the witches. You need to relax. When it's time to strike back, I promise you'll be at the front of the charge."
With that, Solomon bowed respectfully and left the meditation chamber.
"You should have called us, Boya," Bayonetta murmured as she gently stroked Solomon's hair, her voice uncharacteristically soft. Since meeting Solomon, their relationship had gone from adversarial—trying to kill each other due to opposing stances—to one of affection, shaped by centuries of shared memories. However, in all their time together, Bayonetta had never seen Solomon so consumed by anger. When he had returned home earlier, it felt like every inch of his skin was brimming with rage.
"We've been bored stiff," she continued. "There aren't enough angels in Europe. Jeanne and I can't always play the role of nuns; all that does is lure out those friendly angels. They're hardly enough exercise to work up a sweat, let alone match a yoga session."
"This was official business, darling," Solomon replied, eyes closed as he enjoyed Bayonetta's affection and the faint, intoxicating scent of her perfume. He nuzzled her lap like a contented cat. The witch playfully pinched his nose, only letting go when Solomon grumbled in protest. Her attention shifted to teasing him in other ways.
Earlier, Solomon had resolved to fight his enemies without magic, relying solely on melee combat to vent his fury. As a result, he had returned covered in his foes' blood. He had since burned his blood-soaked clothes and even disposed of his bathwater in a remote wasteland—after all, in this chaotic universe, who could say what monstrosities might spawn from a mix of dark magic creatures' blood?
Now, freshly cleaned and in new clothes, Solomon was utterly exhausted. After dinner, he was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. Bayonetta wanted him to go to bed for the night, but Jeanne adamantly opposed the idea. Tossing aside the Cheshire Cat she had been toying with, she tried to drag Solomon to his feet. Thankfully, Bayonetta stopped Jeanne's absurd antics just in time, allowing Solomon to remain comfortably resting on her lap.
"That attack was aimed at you," Bayonetta said with a sly smile. "We have every right to descend to hell and kill that infernal lord. Don't forget, Boya, you're the weakest in this household—" her voice dripped with teasing, "—if we don't count Cheshire Cat and your little maid."
Just then, the doorbell rang. Solomon opened his eyes and reluctantly sat up, struggling to shake off his fatigue. He instructed the android to answer the door. When it returned with the visitor's identity, Solomon's eyes narrowed as he pondered the situation.
"Who is it?" Jeanne asked, curious. Only a select few knew their address, and she couldn't guess who would visit so late in the evening.
"Father Moreau," Solomon replied. "That drunk, black priest. He says he has something urgent to tell me. He told Dana that my disaster is imminent, that I've strayed from the path and am about to descend into the palace of death."
"You're taking him seriously?" Bayonetta raised an eyebrow. "After a speech like that, I'd have expected you to slam the door in his face."
"He might have met the one who gave me the stigmata," Solomon said as he stood up, smoothing out his wrinkled shirt. "I still have unfinished business with that guy. Should I let him in?"
"If he wants to be a guest, then let him in," Bayonetta replied.
Father Moreau never arrived empty-handed, though the bottle of liquor he brought was clearly for his own consumption. "I know what's happening to you—everything, even before it happens," he said bluntly. "I know you'll want to ask how I got this information. All I can tell you is that I learned it during prayer."
"Not during one of your drunken stupors?" Solomon quipped, never missing an opportunity to mock servants of the divine.
"Hmph!" Moreau couldn't refute the jab, as he had indeed been blackout drunk when he dreamt of Solomon's plight. Ordinarily, people don't remember dreams after blacking out, but this one had been so vivid that he recalled every detail even after sobering up.
It was this inexplicable clarity that had driven him to fly from Europe to New York immediately after waking, without a moment's delay.
"And yet, here you are, drinking again," Solomon remarked, unimpressed. He suspected Moreau had pickled his brain with alcohol—given how much the priest drank, it was a miracle his liver hadn't given out.
"This is the best cure for a hangover," Moreau grumbled, casting a disapproving glance at the witches.
To Moreau, witches were practitioners of dark arts, servants of demons, modern-day Delilahs, and symbols of corruption. The priest disapproved of Solomon's closeness to them, but he knew the mage wouldn't listen to his sermons. He had come only to deliver his warning.
"I dreamt of you standing in black flames capable of consuming souls, facing a three-headed venomous dragon," Moreau said, taking a swig of his liquor. The speed at which he drank made Solomon suspect the bottle had been purchased from a local grocery store, as the European spirits were likely already gone.
"The dragon had green serpent tongues, and its poisonous drool turned into toxic weeds upon touching the ground," Moreau continued. "I saw you riding a horse without saddle or stirrups, wielding a lance and a sword against the dragon. I saw you pin the dragon to the ground with your lance—"
"Wait, wait, wait. Why does this sound so familiar?" Solomon interrupted. "This is Saint George and the Dragon, isn't it? Sure, a lot of what you said matches me—my horse really doesn't have a saddle or stirrups, and I do have a sword and a lance—but that doesn't mean your dream is accurate. Are you sure you're not just mixing things up and making this up as you go?"
"Then how do you explain me knowing about your attack before it happened?" Moreau shot back, his gaze sharp even as he swallowed more liquor. "You refuse to believe in God, yet this shouldn't have happened to you." He glanced at the witches disdainfully. "You are the Messiah, the second Messiah. Your birth was meant to make you a savior. Remember what I told you before? You don't need external magic to perform miracles. What's stopping you? Your teacher?"
"No, my height," Solomon replied sarcastically. Moreau scowled but didn't press the point.
"In any case, you'd better study what you took from the monastery," the priest said as he stood to leave. "God's wisdom is contained in those texts. That's knowledge you can comprehend. Don't give me that look—I know about the Golden Dawn. They came to the monastery seeking wisdom but left with little. It was beyond their grasp; they weren't even worthy to partake of the sacred blood."
"My dream is a warning of what's to come. You need the Lord's power."
"No thanks," Solomon said, leaning back. "If God is truly omnipotent, then to Him, we're nothing but ants. Our sacrifices are insect limbs, and our prayers are mosquito buzzes—utterly meaningless. Unless, of course, He's a narcissist who craves praise. Tell me, Moreau, would you enjoy the worship of mosquitoes?"
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