Clea sat on a chair matching the much-vaunted sectional, waiting for the Parringtons’ doctor to finish his examination of Patsy. It had always been a source of secret ironic amusement to her that Stephen Strange, at one time a celebrated neurosurgeon who had kept the moniker of “Doctor” when he began his study of the mystic arts, had taught her few healing spells beyond those lending temporary strength to an ally so they could continue to fight. What curative charms she knew she had learned herself, but neither those nor the basic first aid training she’d received at Stephen’s insistence would be enough if her friend had some type of spinal-cord injury.
Patsy had suggested summoning a healer from amongst the Defenders or Avengers, but the only other individual Clea knew for certain could both heal with any ability and get here quickly was Norrin Radd, and the Silver Surfer was not taking her calls these days. He had still not forgiven her for plunging a knife into him to create Ardina, even though he acknowledged the necessity of it afterward. Clea supposed she couldn’t blame him – she had literally stabbed him in the back.
“What about Doc Strange?” Patsy had asked, and Clea’s answering snort had been both derisive and incredulous.
“Stephen? No. His focus is on putting broken universes and timelines back together these days. Not so much people.”
Or hearts, she’d thought, but hadn’t said.
So, they had called the non-superpowered doctor and now she sat looking around the well-appointed room while the doctor poked and prodded Patsy’s back, hips, and legs, eliciting several quickly suppressed gasps of pain. Bowls of fresh purple asters adorned every table, blooms that weren’t indigenous to this tropical climate, but which Clea knew were common to the Centerville, California area where Patsy had grown up. Stephen had never cared much about money, conjuring it as needed, but Clea imagined it must cost a lot of it to have flowers flown in every day just to make Patsy feel more at home.
Finally, the doctor stood and turned so he was facing both Patsy and Clea.
“Nothing is certain without imaging, but from my physical examination, I’d say it’s more likely muscular than nerve-related, probably a strain. The symptoms should fade on their own, especially if you’re not particularly active.” He looked pointedly at the formfitting Hellcat suit Patsy still wore. “For now, I’m going to prescribe some muscle relaxers, painkillers, and partial bedrest. It won’t do your back any good to stay on the couch for a week watching your favorite soap operas, but you do need to take it easy for a while. No gallivanting off saving the world. Doctor’s orders.”
“Thanks, doc,” Patsy said, sitting up slowly to shake his hand, obviously trying not to wince as she did so. “Sort of figured that’s what you’d say.”
At Clea’s raised eyebrow, she shrugged.
“Not my first rodeo,” Patsy said, which clarified absolutely nothing.
The doctor gave a perfunctory chuckle as he scribbled something illegible on his prescription pad. Then he handed the slip to Patty and showed himself out.
As soon as she heard the door close, Clea turned back to Patsy. “Alright. Now that I’ve been reassured that you will not, in fact, be permanently paralyzed if I don’t rush you off to the nearest operating table or summon any Defender or Avenger with even a smattering of healing ability within a hundred-mile radius of us, I will ‘chill out’ as you suggest and you can tell me the story again. And don’t leave out a single detail. Anything can wind up being important information once placed in its proper context.”
•••
“…and that’s all I could get out of Dormammu’s goon before he went to whatever afterlife demons get sent to,” Patsy finished up, taking a drink from one of the sweating glasses of lemonade currently leaving wet rings on the Parringtons’ glass-topped coffee table. A uniformed member of the house staff had, unbidden, brought out a tray holding a pitcher and glasses before disappearing back into the woodwork. “I don’t know what he wants Ardina for, but it can’t be good, for her or you.”
“A reasonable enough conclusion to draw,” Clea agreed, eschewing her own glass of the too-sweet, too-tart drink after one sip. “But an incorrect one.”
Patsy had swapped out her catsuit for a more comfortable graphic tee and sweats after the doctor left, so Clea could clearly see her brow furrow beneath wisps of red hair as the other woman frowned at her.
“How do you mean?”
“Though I don’t recognize any of the demons you described, I can tell you that they were not Dormammu’s minions.”
“But, the Mindless–”
“I didn’t say they weren’t from the Dark Dimension. Clearly they were. But they didn’t take Ardina on Dormammu’s orders. They couldn’t have, because Dormammu is no longer ruler there. Umar is.” Clea couldn’t keep her mouth from twisting around the name, even more sour on her lips than the lemonade had been. She hoped her explanation would be enough to get Patsy to drop the subject. Umar was – and likely always would be – a touchy subject for Clea.
“Ah,” Patsy replied, nodding. But her frown didn’t dissipate entirely. “I met her once, when ole Dormouse had kidnapped me so I couldn’t rat him out to Mephisto. She was suspended upside down in a magic bubble trap at the time. Still cool as a pickle and twice as spicy, though. Tried to manipulate me into letting her out. Didn’t work, of course.
“Well, at least not on me,” Patsy amended. “Obviously someone let her out at some point if she’s the one running the show now.”
“Indeed,” Clea responded, trying vainly to steer the conversation elsewhere before–
“Say,” Patsy said suddenly, her demeanor brightening. “You’re Dormammu’s niece, right? So doesn’t that make Umar your…?” She trailed off in sudden embarrassment. “Oh. Right.”
Clea’s smile was tight as she willed her cheeks not to flush.
“Yes. Dormammu is my uncle. Which makes Umar… my mother.”
It was still hard to force her mouth around those words, all these years after learning the truth. She’d grown up worshipping Umar and Dormammu, just like everyone else in the Dark Dimension. Then Stephen had come along and revealed the siblings’ true natures, how they cared nothing for the people, instead manipulating and using them as mere props in their constant tug-of-war for the throne. Fueled by that knowledge, Clea had joined the rebellion against Umar and become its leader, determined to depose the evil tyrant once and for all.
And then she had discovered that evil tyrant was her own flesh and blood. That the tyrant had, in fact, given birth to her. Clea’s whole world had turned upside down, and she’d been haunted by a burning question ever since: If she came from such evil roots, how could she herself be good?
“Hey, I’m really sorry–” Patsy began contritely, but Clea waved her words off with an impatient gesture.
“My lineage is hardly your fault, Patsy,” she replied, determinedly tamping down both the nagging question and her worries about its answer. Whatever else she might be, she wasn’t her mother, or her uncle, and that would have to be good enough for now. “Whether it’s of relevance to this situation remains to be seen. But one thing is clear: if my mother plans to use Ardina as a battery, then she most likely has one of two goals. Either she’s decided to stamp the rebellion out for good, or…”
“Or what?”
“Or she’s decided ruling the Dark Dimension isn’t enough for her anymore and has set her sights higher. Which means the entire Archipelago of Anguish and Redemption could be in danger.”
“That… sounds bad,” Patsy replied, her face squinching into an exaggerated look of dismay.
Clea laughed, appreciating her friend’s attempt to lighten the mood.
“You have a rare gift for understatement,” she replied, her smile sitting easier on her lips this time. Still, it quickly faded. If Umar was indeed planning a campaign against the entire Archipelago, it was more than Clea and her rebels could handle alone. Umar’s power had already swelled to god-like levels with her absorption of Dormammu’s magic. If she also had the Power Cosmic to draw upon – a thought that was almost too horrifying to contemplate – Clea wasn’t sure who would be able to stop her.
But she had to try. Her lineage wasn’t any more Clea’s fault than it was Patsy’s, but it was her responsibility. Not to mention Ardina’s wellbeing. The woman wouldn’t even exist if it weren’t for her.
“If we…” she began, then stopped herself as Patsy shifted her weight on the couch and tried to hide a wince. “If I am to stop her, I am going to need help. Very powerful help.”
“Doc?” Patsy ventured again, her tone not particularly hopeful.
“Not a chance,” Clea replied flatly. “Umar wouldn’t be in a position to conquer anything if Stephen hadn’t aided her in overthrowing Dormammu. Whether it was under duress or not, he is literally the last person on Earth I would ask for help right now.”
“OK, then. No Doc. Then who?”
“I have just the person in mind.”
That person was the Scarlet Witch. Doctor Strange himself might well have trouble besting her when it came to magical power these days. Clea had worked with her once long ago when they were both less accomplished and more naive. They had bargained with Hela, the Norse goddess of death, traveled to Niflheim, and battled frostlings and fire-trolls, all to try and reassemble the shards of Eric Masterson, who had been a stand-in for the thunder god Thor at that time. Wanda Maximoff had been the one who, in the end, had figured out exactly how to do that, though she had doubted herself every step of the way.
Clea knew that Wanda’s power and confidence had only continued to grow from that point, and her hexes could alter the fabric of reality itself. She imagined that even with Ardina’s power bolstering her own, Umar would have a hard time combating that.
She hoped so, anyway.
Closing her eyes, Clea prepared a quick incantation to summon Wanda. It wasn’t exactly polite to pluck a fellow magic-user out of her daily life and transport her suddenly from there to here without getting her permission first, but dire times sometimes called for ill-mannered actions. She’d already spent more time than she could spare making sure Patsy was in no immediate danger of death or permanent injury.
“From whence the Scarlet Witch doth abide,
Winds of Watoomb bring her now to my side!”
“Oh, no, Clea!” Patsy exclaimed in alarm, her face losing all color. “You do not want to do–”
It was, of course, too late.
With a sound like a strong wind scattering autumn leaves and a rising chill to match, Clea’s call was answered.
But to her surprise and Patsy’s evident relief, it was not Wanda Maximoff who answered her summons, but Wanda’s old teacher, Agatha Harkness.
Or, rather, Agatha Harkness’s ghost.
“Hello, Clea, my dear. So nice to see you again after all this time. Wanda is currently… indisposed. Is there something I can help you with?”
If not for the fact that she was translucent and floating in midair, Agatha could be an older version of Clea herself, summoned from some far-distant, far more conservative future. The older sorceress sported the same silver hair as Clea, but whereas Clea’s was long and flowing, Agatha’s was short and more severe, parted in the middle and brushed back in lofty wings that accentuated her aristocratic features and haughty eyebrows. Like Clea, Agatha favored shades of purple. But while Clea’s own clothing tended to be more formfitting for ease of movement, like the magenta and lilac leotard she now wore, Agatha’s long, prim dress, with white lace at collar and wrists, was considerably more demure. A cameo depicting the Three Graces at Agatha’s neck and a shawl the color of fine wine about her shoulders finished off the picture of a frail old woman holding onto the past.
Of course, Agatha was hardly frail. Far from it. She was rumored to be older than Atlantis, and her knowledge of magic surely rivaled if not surpassed Stephen’s, though she practiced witchcraft as opposed to the mystic arts. A trivial distinction, since their disparate methods still yielded the same results.
“I don’t understand,” Clea said, a bit nonplussed by the appearance of the witch’s shade. She hadn’t seen Agatha since Dormammu had kidnapped the old woman and her then-student, Wanda, in one of his many unfruitful bids for revenge in response to one of his many earlier defeats. The old woman had been decidedly more corporeal at the time. “I summoned Wanda. Why did you… manifest? Also, are you… dead?”
“To answer your first question, let’s just say that all of Wanda’s calls are being forwarded to me for the time being and leave it at that, shall we? To answer your second, for the moment, yes. But you of all people should know that dead hardly means powerless.” Agatha’s rigid smile invited no further interrogation.
That didn’t stop Patsy.
“Why don’t you tell her the whole story, old woman?” the redhead asked, her tone accusing and inexplicably angry. “That Wanda lost it, killed you, and practically destroyed the Avengers before they could get her under control? All because you wiped her memory so she’d forget her kids, who never actually existed in the first place?”
Agatha’s smile widened, though probably not as much as Clea’s eyes.
Clea had no idea what Patsy was talking about, but it sounded as delightfully intricate as the plot of one of the daytime serials she and Wong sometimes enjoyed back at the brownstone when Stephen wasn’t at home. She’d been largely unaware of Wanda’s unfolding drama, so caught up had she been in her own.
But now Clea understood Patsy’s earlier alarm. The sorceress had seen the damage Wanda could do when she lost control of her powers; if the Scarlet Witch had been so far gone as to kill her beloved mentor, it was frankly amazing there was still an Earth for any of them to be standing here having this conversation on.
“If Clea had time for that tale, I imagine she would have used a telephone rather than a summoning spell.” Agatha turned her attention to Clea, effectively dismissing Patsy. “Isn’t that right, dear?”
“Actually, I would love to hear that story. Sadly, you are correct, and time is of the essence. The Days of Wanda’s Life will have to wait for an occasion when Umar isn’t planning on using our friend to facilitate interdimensional conquest.”
“And what is it that you were hoping Wanda would do for you, had she been able to answer your summons?” Agatha was all business.
“Join me in standing against Umar. She has absorbed her brother Dormammu’s powers and is more puissant than she has ever been. And she’s kidnapped Ardina, who is formed of the Power Cosmic, seeking to augment her power even further. I created Ardina using a spell and knife given to me by Papa Hagg when we were facing off against the Order.” Again, Clea felt guilt well up inside her at the memory. What right had they to bring Ardina forth from the Power Cosmic solely for Earth’s need, as though the golden woman were merely a tool to be used and not a sentient being with thoughts and feelings of her own, just as the Surfer was?
“Yes,” Agatha responded, interrupting Clea’s spiral of self-reproach. “The four corrupt Defenders needed four pure counterparts to return themselves and the world to balance, I remember. Go on.”
“Wanda has bested the Dread Siblings in the past, and she’s the only one I can think of strong enough to help me stop a supercharged Umar.”
“And Stephen–?”
“–is not an option,” Clea finished firmly.
Agatha’s eyebrows rose an inch or two.
“Hmmm. Seems I missed more being dead than I had realized,” she said musingly, as if to herself. Then her gaze sharpened, and her smile took on a calculating quality.
“Well, no matter. I have more than one student, and Earth has more than one Sorcerer Supreme.”