The Holy Son in Marvel

"Where did you go last night?" Coulson asked, showing an unusual persistence. His face was lined with exhaustion, and Solomon could see the dark circles under his eyes. Assuming it was simply Coulson's concern for his partner, Solomon tried to reassure him, suggesting he rest while Solomon finished the job. But Coulson didn't relent, his breathing quickening as he repeated the question. Only then did Solomon sense something was off.

"What's going on?" he asked, growing concerned. "What is it you're really trying to ask?"

"Last night… were you in the town?" Coulson swallowed, looking visibly uneasy. When Solomon nodded in confirmation, he watched as Coulson's expression shifted to a mix of relief and fear. This puzzled Solomon even more; he couldn't understand what was happening here.

When he pressed Coulson for more information, the agent seemed to grow even more anxious.

"I think… it might have just been a hallucination," Coulson said in a low voice, as if afraid someone else might overhear. "It sounds strange, I know, but magic is real, so even something as bizarre as this… I dreamed of a storm outside, hail pounding on the window. I dreamed of a huge bonfire in a clearing in the woods, with blue, purple, and orange smoke spiraling into the sky, lingering there. I saw figures cloaked in dark robes—women, I think—chanting loudly in some language I couldn't understand. I saw the faces of those girls we'd seen before, lying pale and lifeless on the ground. And there was a dark figure holding two smoldering stakes, devouring their souls. I was just standing there, unable to speak or move, helpless. The dark figure looked straight at me, and in his eyes, I saw cruelty and mockery. He was mocking me, mocking my attempts at goodness."

Coulson's voice trembled, and he continued, "When I woke up, I heard rats. I know rats are everywhere in this time period, but these weren't just a few rats—they sounded like a whole swarm, scratching through the walls. I didn't light a candle, but I could feel them scurrying behind the thin wooden wall, hear their claws scraping against the boards. Not just in the walls but in the ceiling, too. It was as if they were trying to claw their way into my room. When I touched the wall, I could feel it, that slight vibration from them moving… as if they wanted to… to—"

"Hey, hey!" Solomon interrupted, slapping Coulson's face gently but firmly to stop him from spiraling further. It was clear Coulson's mental state was teetering, likely shaken by the traumatic scenes of the witch trials. "Get a grip, Coulson, get a grip," Solomon urged him. "Don't dwell on this, or it'll drive you mad. If you can't calm down, I'll have to give you a sedative."

"I'm telling the truth! I… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to overreact. Maybe I'm just exhausted." Coulson squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his face and slowly regaining composure. Thanks to Solomon's calming spell, his focus returned to the present, though he subconsciously moved away from the wall, as if expecting rats to burst through at any moment. "What do you need me to do? But first, I think it'd be best to bring Romanoff back."

"In a bit. I'm giving you all the gold I have—you'll need to gather workers to build something." Solomon pulled a parchment from his scroll case. It was a detailed drawing of an altar with precise measurements marked on it. "I need you to find a stone tower at least 10 yards high, and get workers to help you build this structure on top of it. The people of Salem won't be of much help; they're too embroiled in the witch trial hysteria. But you could go to Salem Village to the west—it's relatively peaceful there. This altar must be completed before I deal with the mastermind behind all this. Follow the measurements exactly, and make sure the tower is in an open, desolate area. This won't be easy, and you can't do it alone."

"Understood." Coulson examined the parchment carefully and asked, "What's this for? Are you planning to cast a spell?"

"Yes, one that will solve all of our problems." Solomon sighed. "I'll handle the materials myself—you don't need to know what they are. And as for Tituba…"

"What about her?"

"We can send her back to Randolph Carter's place," Solomon replied. "Mr. Carter has promised to take care of her. But you should know that the trial will implicate many people, and it's impossible to save everyone. By the way, the Pryce farm is unclaimed now; you might find a use for it."

"Thank you," Coulson said quietly. "Thank you for everything you're doing."

"It's nothing. I'll go get Natasha; you'll need her help."

As Solomon made his way to the address Coulson had provided for Natasha's lookout spot, he noticed the streets growing more crowded, though mostly with men. King's Army soldiers with flintlock guns patrolled the streets. The local governor had ordered Cotton Mather to ensure that witches wouldn't freely roam the streets.

Issuing orders was one thing, enforcing them another. Following the advice of Matthew Hopkins, Cotton Mather instructed the King's Army to conduct random witch checks in the streets. But ever since King Charles II's reign began in 1661, military ranks had become commodities, with officers' ranks often bought by noble families for their wayward sons. The soldiers, largely from the lowest social class in England, often lacked discipline. As they seized women randomly in the streets, the surrounding men cheered, eager to see more people sentenced to the gallows, convinced these women were summoning the devil.

Solomon frowned and slipped into a dark, damp alleyway to avoid attention. Though he could handle guns and was fully capable of defeating the King's Army if necessary, now was not the time to create trouble. When he reached his destination, however, Natasha was nowhere to be found. The alley was a secluded spot frequented only by drunks and addicts, much like similar places in the USA three hundred years later. Scanning the area, Solomon found no signs of a struggle. The footprints in the alley were sparse, and he could easily distinguish Natasha's from the rest.

She hadn't been captured—Solomon doubted the King's Army could capture her. Rather, it seemed she had left on her own. This puzzled him since her mission was only to observe, not to act. Solomon peered out of the alley; across the street was the location of the four suspected witches. Coulson's intelligence had been thorough, even detailing the girls' routines. But at the hour they were usually present, they were nowhere to be seen.

Just then, a faint rustling sound came from behind him. He turned abruptly and spotted a rat perched on a low roof. This rat had human-like hands and feet and the face of a man, with a long scar on its left cheek and a sinister smile. It was a familiar spirit—a witch's familiar!

Solomon's stomach churned; Coulson and Natasha were likely already under the watchful eye of Nyarlathotep. As the leader of the coven, the Dark Man could be instructing the witches to target them. Though Solomon was confident Natasha wouldn't fall easily, he was uncertain of the full extent of the witches' powers.

He drew his wand, ready to cast a magic missile, but the rat leapt from the roof, disappearing into a sewer ditch filled with filthy, stagnant water. Solomon gave chase, accidentally stepping on two drunks, but the rat familiar was too quick and disappeared before he could catch it.

"Damn it!" Solomon cursed, clenching his fist in frustration. He could only hope Natasha hadn't actually run into the witches or, if she had, that she'd escaped quickly enough. Spotting a stray dog on the street, he realized he had the material he needed for a spell. It seemed he had no other choice at the moment.

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