Chapter 14.
Standing in the doorway was — well, the most direct and honest description — a goddess. A very young one, judging by her face — twenty-five at most. Tall, slender, with long black hair, slightly disheveled. And she was wearing — hell, it wasn't just a short nightgown, it was a scrap of black silk that was desperately trying to conceal things that it would have been a crime to conceal. The nightgown ended where most girls' ordinary tank tops are only just beginning. I felt a warm wave rush to my face and below. I looked away quickly, fixing my gaze on my worn-out shoes.
*And this is the reliable person?* ran through my head. *Sly, have you lost your mind completely? How is this — cover model — supposed to help us against ninja?*
And then it hit me. I was, for the love of God, in the Marvel universe. Here even a pizza delivery guy could turn out to be a superhero, and a retired neighbor could be a former agent of some ultra-classified organization.
The girl, meanwhile, stretched lazily, which caused the silk to ride up even further, and a sly, seductive smile played at her lips — directed exclusively at Sly.
"Oh, Sla-a-ay…" Her voice was like pleasant music. "You certainly didn't rush. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten all about me."
I risked a glance at Sly. His face remained composed, but small muscles were visibly twitching at the corners of his eyes.
"Megan," he said dryly. "May we come in? It's urgent."
"Of course, darling," she stepped aside and opened the door wide. "Come in. Forgive the mess — I wasn't expecting guests quite this early."
We entered the hallway. I was making a deliberate effort not to look at her legs, which were remarkably long and perfectly shaped. The door closed with a quiet click. I turned to glance back at her — and stopped.
Megan was no longer wearing the nightgown. She had on an elegant, perfectly fitted black dress. Light makeup only emphasized her flawless features, and her hair was styled in a casual but sophisticated way. A subtle fragrance drifted from her. The complete impression was that she had just stepped out of a beauty salon, not out of a bedroom.
*Magic,* I noted inwardly. *Obviously. Magic.*
"This is Alexei," Sly nodded in my direction, pulling me from my daze. "My — student."
Megan turned her gaze to me. Her eyes were bright green and piercingly attentive. Not a trace remained of that languid drowsiness from a moment ago.
"Ah, so this is the famous Hardcore?" Her lips curved into a smile again. "Or, as they call you in certain circles, 'the Russian Oracle,' yes? Word gets around, boy. Very interesting word."
I couldn't find anything to say to that. Honestly, the thought that someone out there was already talking about me was faintly unsettling.
"Megan Fox — specialist in nonstandard problems," Sly introduced her, choosing his words carefully.
"Witch, Slaykins, witch," she corrected him, smiling sweetly. "From an old European family, to be precise. English roots, if that means anything to you. I don't like it when people diminish my profession."
She turned and moved deeper into the house, gesturing for us to follow. We passed through the hallway and entered a cozy, perfectly ordinary-looking living room. Megan flicked her hand casually — and from the kitchen table in the adjacent room, three mugs and a kettle floated smoothly into the air. They glided gracefully across the space and settled on the low coffee table. The kettle tilted, pouring fragrant tea into the mugs, while several chocolate cookies drifted out of a jar on their own and arranged themselves on a saucer.
I tried not to react. I was in Marvel, after all — I had already seen Tony Stark, Captain America, and the Black Widow. And I had my own System. But watching real magic up close, in an ordinary house in Utah — it was something else. I found myself standing still, tracking the flying crockery involuntarily.
Megan caught my gaze and laughed.
"First time visiting a witch, darling?" She winked. "Don't worry, I don't bite — unless asked."
"Megan," Sly intervened. "We don't have much time. Is our arrangement still in place?"
"For you, Slaykins, always," she sighed theatrically, settling into an armchair and crossing her legs. "On the condition, of course, that you still have that — agreed-upon sum."
She looked at him with exaggerated hopefulness.
I raised an eyebrow. Sly, without blinking, nodded.
"The money will be transferred to your account. As usual."
Megan laughed — bright and genuine.
"Don't look at me like that, Hardie," she said, turning to me. "Even we beautiful creatures need something to live on. Potion ingredients are expensive these days, and outfits don't buy themselves. Magic is magic, but shopping is sacred."
Then her gaze turned playful and languid again. She licked her lips, looking directly at me.
"Or perhaps we can make our own arrangement, Hardie? I can offer you — a great deal. Protection, knowledge — entertainment. I have extensive experience," she said, with such frank implication that I forgot how to breathe for a moment. Her eyes meeting mine, I found I couldn't look away.
"Enough of your games, Megan." Sly stepped between us, breaking the contact. "Strictly according to the agreement. No freelancing."
Megan pouted in theatrical offense, but a second later her face became businesslike and focused.
"Ah, Slaykins, what a villain you are. You always ruin everything. Maybe Hardie would like to stay with a kind and hospitable girl, instead of trudging through the muck with a rude brute?"
Sly gave a short laugh.
"I doubt he'd enjoy the company of someone who's past her second century, if not her third."
The air in the room went very still. I felt goosebumps travel down my spine. Megan didn't move, but her face changed. The smile left it, her eyes went cold, and her long black hair rose slightly and began to stir as though in an unseen wind. A palpable current moved through the room.
She was suddenly standing in front of Sly — I hadn't seen her move at all. They were nose to nose.
"Dear Slaykins," her voice came out quietly, but with an edge of steel that made me deeply uncomfortable. "Jokes about a lady's age are taboo."
Sly, to my surprise, held her gaze calmly and even allowed himself a slight smirk.
"No more taboo than attempting to lure away my student while I'm responsible for him."
The tension dropped as quickly as it had risen. And Megan became the same playful beauty again. She stepped back and smiled.
"Fine, fine, you rascal. Know that if anyone else were standing where you are — they would not be leaving this house." She said it as lightly as one might discuss the weather, but for some reason I didn't doubt her for a second. "Come along to the basement. That's where I work."
She led us down a narrow staircase. Along the way she threw a remark over her shoulder:
"By the way, Slaykins — how is that nice young man you brought last time? The redhead, the cheerful one?"
Sly, walking behind me, slowed slightly. His mood shifted visibly.
"He didn't make it," he said, cutting the subject off.
*There's your witch,* I thought. She had needled Sly right back for the age comment. But he, apparently, had decided not to continue the exchange.
The basement turned out to be nothing like a damp and dark cellar — it was a spacious, clean room with stone walls. In the center of the floor a complex pentagram had been laid out, surrounded by numerous runes and symbols carved into the stone or drawn in silver paint. Candles stood at intervals around the perimeter.
"Stand in the center, Hardie," Megan instructed, pointing to the circle.
I glanced at Sly. He nodded. I crossed the lines and positioned myself in the middle of the pentagram, feeling mildly ridiculous.
Megan took up her position outside the circle. Her posture and expression shifted again to something focused and serious. She closed her eyes, drew a slow breath, and began chanting words in an unfamiliar language. Her voice took on a strange, resonant quality that sent fresh goosebumps across my skin.
The pentagram beneath my feet began to glow faintly with bluish light. The candles around the room's perimeter flared to life, though no one had lit them. In the still air of the basement a soft but perceptible wind arose, stirring up dust and setting Megan's hair trembling. It was considerably more impressive than the flying mugs.
About ten minutes passed. The incantation reached its peak, her voice rising, and the light from the pentagram flashed so brightly I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. Then everything fell quiet. The light went out, the wind stopped. Silence surrounded me again.
And — nothing. Absolutely nothing felt different. No surge of power, no sense of protection, nothing.
I looked at Megan uncertainly, then at Sly.
"And — that's it?" I couldn't help asking.
Megan opened her eyes and grinned, wiping a small bead of sweat from her forehead.
"What were you expecting? A lightning bolt to the forehead? A glowing halo? This is a blocking spell for detection magic, Hardie. Not the most complicated ritual, honestly. It creates an invisible sphere around you that distorts and scatters any magical attempts to locate you. Something like camouflage — but for your aura."
"How long will it last?" Sly asked, still standing guard at the staircase.
"A couple of weeks, I'd think," Megan shrugged. "Sometimes it held for a month. Depends on how frequently and how powerfully they 'call' for you. Each detection spell they cast drains the protection a little. If he were a mage, maintaining the protection himself would be simple — but he isn't."
*Perfect moment,* ran through my head.
I had the System. What if I could study magic? Wasn't that another path to power? I turned to the witch, trying to look as casually interested as possible.
"Actually — do you happen to have something like a beginner's guide? On the fundamentals of magic?" I asked.
Her eyes sparked with a clever glint immediately. She folded her arms beneath her chest and took a step toward me.
"Oh, a curious boy! Of course I do! We could make a separate agreement… or you could simply stay with me. I'll teach you everything I know…" She licked her lips. "Or we could start with something more — practical."
Sly, from his position by the stairs, cut her off sharply without moving.
"The money will be transferred to your account within twenty-four hours. He," he nodded in my direction, "doesn't need knowledge of magic. That's not his path."
He delivered the words with such finality that even Megan didn't argue. She only pursed her lips.
It was clear the subject had been closed. Judging by Sly's tone, there were solid reasons behind it, so I shifted topics.
"What about you, then?" I asked Sly.
Megan laughed.
"Oh, no, darling. Slaykins has had a permanent protection on him for a long time. Very, very expensive and complex work." She looked at Sly with a sudden warmth. "I couldn't allow my favorite contractor to be found through some cheap curse."
Then the playfulness flared in her eyes again. She walked over to Sly and placed a hand on his chest.
"Perhaps you'll stay the night? I have a spare room for your young protégé… I've missed you so terribly, Slaykins." She glanced at me and smiled seductively. "Or — perhaps we could all have some fun together? I'm certain we could find things to do."
Sly gently removed her hand.
"We don't have time for your games, Megan. We need to keep moving."
"Ah," she sighed with exaggerated sorrow. "It's always like this. You show up, make use of a poor girl's services — and rush straight off again. And I'm so very short on real men."
"I know all about your 'real men,'" Sly said, with a short laugh, turning toward the exit. "And I know how those evenings usually end for them. More often than not — a curse, memory loss, or a sudden need to go into hiding. We're leaving."
Megan gave a theatrical gasp, pressing a hand to her chest.
"Farewell, Hardie. If you change your mind about the lessons — you know where to find me. I'm sure we'd find a common language." She winked and blew me a kiss.
We walked out of the house, leaving her standing on the threshold. I settled into the car, full of questions I was burning to ask Sly. He started the engine and we pulled away.
We drove in silence for a while. I stared out the window at the passing houses, a carousel of questions spinning in my head.
He kept his eyes on the road, then exhaled heavily.
"All right. Ask. I can practically hear the gears grinding."
I let out a relieved breath. Good — since he'd given the go-ahead:
"First question. How do you know her? Megan, I mean."
Sly was quiet for a moment, as though returning to a memory.
"That was a long time ago. An assignment in Eastern Europe. A local self-taught mage who'd convinced himself he was a god had arranged a small-scale apocalypse. I was there on contract. In the course of the job I discovered he was holding several genuine mages captive, draining power from them. Megan was one of them. I got her and two others out. The rest didn't survive. Since then she considers herself in my debt." He gave a short laugh. "Although her concept of debt is fairly specific. It usually manifests as discounts on her services."
"I see," I nodded. That gave her behavior some semblance of logic. "Next question. Why did you react so — sharply — when I asked about the lessons?"
Sly exhaled slowly, and his face became serious.
"Because you don't understand what you'd be dealing with. Witches aren't monks meditating in the mountains, accumulating qi. And they're not mages who learn spells from books. Witches draw their power from contracts, instincts, emotions, and — dark places. They're selfish, self-absorbed, impulsive, and extremely emotional. Extended contact with them is like playing Russian roulette."
He glanced at me briefly, gauging whether I was following.
"Your apprenticeship with her would have lasted a couple of days. Best case — it would end when you asked a question she found inappropriate, or when she simply got bored. And it would be a good outcome if all they did was throw you out the door. Death, kid, is far from the worst thing an angry — or just capricious — witch can do to you."
His words sent a chill down my spine. I thought about how she had been, and how quickly the atmosphere in the room had shifted. There was truth in what he was saying.
"Are all witches like that?" I asked the obvious question.
"Honestly, I don't know many witches. Only Megan. But the word is that others are — more or less normal. There's another rule, though: the older the witch, the more — individual — she becomes. The more peculiar the workings of her mind. And Megan — well, you saw what she's like."
I nodded. Too theatrical, too changeable, too dangerous in her playfulness. Yes, I'd seen.
"You told her I had 'a different path.' What did you mean?"
Sly was quiet for a few seconds, intent on the road.
"For someone like you, a witch's magic would be a dead end. It's like trying to plug a steam engine into a wall socket. Wrong energy, wrong principles. There are other ways to get stronger. More direct. More — honest. When the time comes, you'll learn about them."
There was no condescension in his voice. More the certainty of a man who knows the road and doesn't want his student to wander into a swamp. I decided to trust him. So far his guidance had not led me wrong.
"All right. Last question then. You said the protection from Megan costs money. So I owe you now? Or — SHIELD?"
This time Sly allowed himself a fairly satisfied smirk.
"Don't worry about it, kid. SHIELD pays for everything. Specifically, Fury personally. I'm just doing him a favor by spending his money."
That eased things slightly. Though the thought of being more and more indebted to Fury didn't exactly fill me with enthusiasm either.
"Where to now?" I asked, watching the road stretch out ahead.
"Now we cross the ocean. Another country. Time to change the scenery. I have a man there who owes me a favor. We'll keep you there while Fury finishes his cleanup."