The Holy Son in Marvel

"Who were you talking to?" Jeanne asked as she descended the stairs, giving Solomon a glance. "You left in the middle of everything. Did something happen at Kamar-Taj?"

"Lower-plane creatures invaded, and someone died," Solomon replied, covering the phone's receiver. "The other mystics can handle it. This call was from S.H.I.E.L.D., unrelated to the magical world."

"Then hurry up. Dinner's almost ready," Jeanne said, opening the smoker to check the fish and sausages inside. Solomon nodded and wrapped up his call with Nick Fury after a few more words. "I think we might get to watch a superhero showdown tonight," he said. "The show's just been arranged."

His last few words were meant to give the century-old Steve Rogers a worthy opponent, someone who would help him adapt to the modern world after seventy years in the ice. Steve Rogers was a genuinely kind-hearted man, and Ghost Rider's judgment wouldn't touch him. Even today, extraterrestrials weren't roaming the streets, nor were higher- or lower-plane creatures popping up from underground. For someone as out of his time as Captain America, getting a taste of non-human foes was a good thing—much better than just punching sandbags day in and day out. Besides, Nick Fury, that penny-pincher, hadn't even set up a pension for Captain America. Not letting Steve have a little action? Now that would just be unfair.

Solomon figured he'd done a good deed, nudging his alignment pointer just a bit closer to good.

"Come on, don't waste time. Every second here is precious." Solomon gave Jeanne a mischievous smile. "It's okay to admit that you like my cooking, Jeanne."

"That's only because there's no pizza delivery around here, kid," Jeanne retorted, glaring at Solomon before heading into the cabin. She would never, ever admit that she liked his cooking. Not a chance! She was just sampling it, that's all—just a few bites here and there!

Satisfied and full, Solomon settled down with a magic book in hand, occasionally glancing at the TV. Nearby, Bayonetta and Jeanne were quietly chatting, likely about their next angel-hunting destination—specifically, the angels of Jubileus. There were fewer and fewer of these creatures lately, and every time Solomon teleported them to hunt, they could only find a few minor lackeys attempting to steal souls in the Material Plane.

Those absurd neighborhood committees back in New York had been a real pain. Neither Bayonetta nor Jeanne was the kind to engage in small talk with neighbors, so Solomon had handled all the arrangements once he moved in—even taking it upon himself to drive away unwelcome suitors. After all, two beautiful single women inevitably attracted some attention. Nick Fury had already complained to him multiple times; the S.H.I.E.L.D. director didn't want anyone getting shot over something like that. Solomon, for his part, responded by saying that if those idiots didn't leave, he'd dismantle their doors with an automatic rifle sooner or later.

"Show's starting, darling." Solomon checked his phone and switched to the news channel. He hadn't expected Fury to act so quickly, retrieving Captain America from Brooklyn and throwing him into the fray with Ghost Rider all within the span of one meal. The TV showed aerial footage captured by helicopter, giving viewers a clear shot of the flaming skull standing atop a skyscraper.

"After seventy years, Captain America returns to battle a demon," Solomon said with a flourish. "I've already got a headline in mind."

"Are you interested in Captain America?" Bayonetta asked, glancing at the screen. "He does have quite a… well-formed backside."

"Darling, you know I'm not into men."

"But you went to Eton, didn't you? And I heard you're still a teacher's whipping boy."

"That's not the same thing as our… private recreations." Solomon spread his hands in exasperation. "Besides, he's a symbol of America—or, at least, America's own idea of itself. Captain America is one of the most popular figures at the busiest museum in Washington. I've never been, but it's amusing to watch the rednecks cheer him on."

Jeanne shot Solomon a glare. She hadn't realized things had gotten this far between Bayonetta and Solomon. Seeing her longtime friend on the verge of being stolen away, Jeanne switched seats, inserting herself between Bayonetta and Solomon.

"Are you serious?" Solomon blinked. Jeanne just gave him a look and refused to respond.

---

If something has a chance to go wrong, no matter how small that chance, it will go wrong. This is Murphy's Law. And demons are like Murphy's Law in that they always appear at the worst times. For some people, demons could show up at any moment. Even though Solomon hadn't actively searched for a demon, the moment he returned to Eton alone after his weekend getaway—having dropped off Bayonetta and Jeanne in Eastern Europe to hunt angels—Mephisto sought him out.

It was a night when Solomon had booked the chemistry lab for himself, working on two alchemy orders. Suddenly, a chilling aura crept into the lab from the bushes outside, crawling up the walls and causing the overhead lights to flicker. Darkness poured from the far end of the hallway, stopping at the lab's door. Solomon noticed the disturbance, set down his test tube, and braced himself.

"Well, well, well, our distinguished gentleman finds joy in mere bottles of alchemical potions," said an elderly man in a black suit who appeared at Solomon's alchemy table. He held a silver cane with a skull on top, and his white hair was slicked back, giving him the look of a polite old gentleman.

"Mephisto, are you still running for your life these days?" Solomon instantly recognized the man's true identity. It hadn't been long since the Sorcerer Supreme had told him about Mephisto, so anyone would have made the connection.

"Why would I be running?" The old devil raised an eyebrow, examining a test tube. "I'm merely a businessman."

"The finest businessman on Earth, Mr. Mephisto—whether in fleeing or in deal-making," Solomon replied, pulling up a chair and taking a seat. "But unfortunately, the Sorcerer Supreme didn't grant you an import license."

"In the trade business, dealing with the authorities is par for the course. I'm used to it. After all, I've never paid taxes." Mephisto also took a seat, unfazed by the potential threat of Kamar-Taj. "But this is just an avatar, a powerless one at that. Losing it wouldn't cost me much."

"May I ask what brings you here?" Solomon picked up a vial and added the last ingredient, completing a mid-level healing potion. Noticing the positive energy in the potion, Mephisto looked at him with an expression akin to disgust.

However, his impeccable manners quickly restored his usual expression.

"Aren't you tired of it, Solomon?" he said. "Letting that fool Belial hold onto your contract for so many centuries. Don't tell me you still have some lingering affection for him. Or maybe Lilith? She's a captivating succubus, but you've never been one to indulge in carnal distractions. Besides, you already have Queen Sheba, don't you? And she's a formidable woman. My dear master of the Demon Pillars, surely you're not still vying for the Seventh Throne? We both know it's no prize, and anyone who thinks they can claim it now is a madman."

"So what if I told you I could help wrest the contract from Belial's hands? Or even help you take that seat?"

"Let's make a deal, shall we?"

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