The Ancient One smiled as well.
"I know what you're thinking. And I agree.
When this matter is over, bring that young girl—Wanda—to Kamar-Taj.
I have a gift for her. Consider it your reward."
Lucas couldn't hide his grin.
She was right—he wanted Wanda to learn at Kamar-Taj.
Not only because the Ancient One was the most capable teacher she could have, but also because Kamar-Taj safeguarded the Darkhold, left behind by Chthon.
Wanda, who inherited his Chaos Magic, was one of the very few beings able to read it.
The plan was dangerous—extremely dangerous.
The Darkhold corrupted minds, magnified darkness within the heart, and drove readers into insanity until they became slaves to the book.
Lucas feared Wanda's mind might not withstand it.
That was why he needed the Ancient One—to teach Wanda properly, to keep her away from the Darkhold's corruption.
Wanda's current use of Chaos Magic was crude, instinctive at best.
And Lucas? His magic came from the system—he couldn't teach her anything practical.
So Kamar-Taj was the only choice.
The Ancient One agreed quickly.
She knew Wanda's origin.
In fact, she had been there when Chthon "blessed" Wanda as an infant, and she had helped other sorcerers drive Chthon back into another dimension.
She felt responsible for Wanda.
She also feared the possibility of Wanda eventually embracing darkness.
Chaos Magic was the root of all dark sorcery—its temptation immeasurable.
After the Ancient One departed, the distorted space rippled and vanished.
Time resumed.
Matt and Frank didn't notice a thing—
one continued sipping his tea,
the other kept talking.
"That's the situation," Frank said, putting away the photos. "No leads at all.
We haven't even seen a vampire's shadow."
Lucas took out the video communicator Natasha left him and called Nick Fury.
"Hey, baldy. Miss me? How've you been?"
Lucas waved with an exaggerated fake smile.
"If you've got business, say it. I'm busy."
Fury's face was as dark as charcoal.
If he could beat Lucas, he'd have kicked him through the screen by now.
"Last time I warned you—you need to take that man seriously.
He's bad news.
If you still don't get it, then I really can't help you."
Lucas said it plainly, unconcerned about who might be standing beside Fury.
"If you're too embarrassed to deal with him yourself, I can do it for you.
No payment needed this time—just let me blow up the Triskelion."
He still hadn't given up on blowing up S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ.
He wanted it so badly that he was willing to waive his usual fee.
"If you've got nothing important to say, I'm hanging up."
Fury finally realized he must be stupid for answering Lucas's calls at all.
"There is something. Frank, show him."
Lucas turned the camera.
Frank skipped any greetings and shoved the photos toward the screen.
"These are from a case a few days ago.
Victims are young women.
Dead from blood loss.
Two bite marks on the neck—likely vampire—and their cervical bones were snapped."
A concise summary.
"Motherf—! Those damned bloodsucking pests again?!
Do they think S.H.I.E.L.D. is a decoration?!"
Fury's face darkened even more.
They had just cleaned out an ancient nest, and now another batch appeared.
It made S.H.I.E.L.D. look incompetent.
"Where did it happen?"
"Hell's Kitchen."
Fury immediately called out off-screen:
"Coulson. My office. Now."
In a few moments, Coulson entered.
"You called, sir—oh, hey Frank! How've you been?"
Frank lifted a hand in silent greeting.
"Drop everything you're doing," Fury said.
"Take Romanoff and Barton.
Find Frank.
Investigate a vampire case.
I suspect vampires have slipped into New York."
Coulson nodded.
"Understood. Going now."
He turned and left.
"Whatever you need, ask Coulson.
I'll assign people to investigate on my end as well.
That's all."
The screen went dark—Fury had hung up.
The three waited.
Soon enough, a Quinjet descended onto the roof of Lucas's apartment building.
The tenants barely reacted—they were used to it.
Their landlord Lucas wasn't ordinary:
son of the NYPD commissioner, friend of Tony Stark, and clearly connected to some shadowy government organization.
Just one of those titles could make someone untouchable in New York.
Lucas had all of them.
It was no wonder these tenants scrambled to live here.
Even Stark rented an apartment here—being his neighbor was bragging rights.
Rent was reasonable, not cheap but not overpriced—perfect for the tenants' egos.
Many even prepaid months early just to avoid losing their spot.
When they saw the Quinjet parked on the roof 24/7, their suspicions solidified—
Lucas definitely had military connections too.
Living here felt safer than the richest gated communities in the city.
Nobody wanted to move out.
Not ever.
The Quinjet belonged to Lucas—
or rather, it used to before three certain girls vandalized it with their "artistic vision."
Now it was black, white, green, and red—
like a disco ball.
Spider-web patterns and shockwave rings covered its surface.
If Wanda weren't so restrained by nature, she might've painted on glowing Chaos Magic flames too.
Lucas had zero say in any of this.
As Skye put it:
"You can't even fly the jet.
What right do you have to comment?"
One sentence, and Lucas shut down completely.
He let them do whatever they wanted.
They even assigned roles like they were playing a video game:
Skye as main pilot, Gwen as co-pilot, Wanda as "main attacker."
A ridiculous arrangement.
The jet didn't even have a machine gun.
What exactly was Wanda supposed to "attack" with—
her forehead?
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