Sorcerer in the Marvel Universe

Milkhakov dangled by the collar, the wind screaming past his ears as whoever had grabbed him carried him at terrifying speed.

Fortunately, his rescuer apparently had no intention of going very far.

He was dropped before the pressure around his throat could kill him.

Milkhakov hit the ground hard.

Still gasping from the lack of oxygen, he lay there for several seconds before realizing he’d been carried to the edge of the battlefield.

The terrifying flaming skeleton hadn’t noticed them.

Milkhakov shakily pushed himself upright and turned around.

He wanted to see exactly who had saved him.

Instead, he found himself staring into a pair of crimson eyes.

The rest of the man’s face was hidden beneath the shadow of a hood.

A skeletal staff rested in one hand.

Behind him stood a magnificent horse wreathed in flames, with two pairs of horns growing from its head and neck.

The stranger wore a long wizard’s robe, though it had no sleeves.

Milkhakov’s facial muscles twitched.

A wizard?

The horse alone was horrifying.

And anyone who could walk around bare-chested on a freezing Eastern European night so close to the winter solstice clearly wasn’t normal.

There was something familiar about him, too.

Then it clicked.

Carrigan had said he was dealing with two people.

The flaming skeleton was one.

Could this man be the other?

Milkhakov’s blood ran colder.

But he hadn’t become one of Europe’s biggest arms dealers by charging forward blindly.

He had survived through cunning as much as ruthlessness.

And if this man had deliberately pulled him out of the battlefield, that meant Milkhakov had value.

At least for the moment.

Evenson didn’t bother addressing him immediately.

Instead, he looked toward the massive quarrying machine where the Ghost Rider was still tearing through the mercenaries.

"Deliberately avoiding me?"

A faint smile touched his lips.

"Heh."

Then he turned toward Milkhakov.

"Milkhakov Berikov."

His voice was calm.

"Your life doesn’t belong to you anymore."

Evenson reached out and seized Milkhakov’s left arm.

"AAGH!"

A string of screams tore from the arms dealer’s throat.

He watched in horror as his left hand withered before his eyes.

The flesh shriveled.

The skin turned waxy and yellow.

Within moments, it looked like nothing more than dried skin stretched over bone.

Like a corpse that had been left to dry in the desert.

I’m finished.

This man hadn’t rescued him.

He’d taken him away from the battlefield so he could torture him to death.

Evenson released him.

Milkhakov immediately collapsed, clutching his ruined arm as his entire body trembled.

Sweat poured down his face.

He couldn’t stop whimpering.

The physical pain and the terror of what was happening pushed him dangerously close to panic.

"Who are you?"

His voice shook.

"What do you want?"

"Please... let me go."

"I have a daughter..."

"Relax."

Evenson crouched down and looked at him.

"You’re not dying yet."

He reached out and grabbed Milkhakov’s lifeless-looking arm.

Milkhakov screamed again.

Evenson spoke with almost conversational calm.

"This condition will take about a month to spread through your entire body."

Milkhakov’s face went white.

"Then you’ll die slowly."

He released the arm.

"Say goodbye to your daughter. Arrange your affairs. Do whatever you still want to do."

"You can seek medical treatment if you want."

Evenson’s smile was almost pleasant.

"It won’t help."

"I’m the only one who can remove the curse."

By the time Evenson finished speaking, Milkhakov was utterly devastated.

For a moment, the arms dealer seriously considered killing himself rather than enduring a month of slow agony.

But that final sentence had given him one thing.

Hope.

He swallowed his screams and forced the words out.

"What do you want me to do?"

"I’ll do anything."

"Smart man."

Evenson nodded with satisfaction.

"You don’t have to do much."

"Stay at home."

"Wait for me to arrive."

"If I’m satisfied with your performance, you’ll live."

His expression hardened.

"If I’m not..."

"You’ll die horribly."

Evenson straightened.

"Now get out of here, you piece of trash."

Milkhakov looked as though he’d just been granted a second life.

He scrambled to his feet and stumbled away, barely caring about the pain in his ruined arm.

"Wait."

Evenson’s voice stopped him.

Milkhakov froze.

Evenson smiled faintly.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Black Scythe..."

The answer finally came to Milkhakov.

He recognized the wizard now.

The Avenger known as Lord Black Scythe, the mysterious figure who had appeared during the Battle of New York.

Then Milkhakov remembered a very important principle.

The more you knew, the faster you died.

"No."

He immediately shook his head.

"How would I know who you are?"

"I don’t know you at all."

"Good."

Evenson waved him away.

He didn’t spare Milkhakov another glance.

Life was a stage.

And survival depended on knowing which role you were supposed to play.

In front of S.H.I.E.L.D., Evenson needed to appear modest, harmless, and thoroughly cooperative.

In front of HYDRA, however, he wanted to maintain an entirely different image.

Powerful.

Mysterious.

Untouchably cool.

The problem was the territory between those two worlds.

Evenson had something important to accomplish.

Something he couldn’t use S.H.I.E.L.D. to accomplish.

Doing so would damage the obedient, respectable image he’d carefully built.

Besides, S.H.I.E.L.D. would never approve.

HYDRA probably would.

But involving HYDRA would lower his standing and undermine the cold, distant persona he’d worked so hard to maintain.

Yet the problem still needed solving.

So he’d chosen someone who didn’t matter.

Someone S.H.I.E.L.D. had little interest in protecting.

Someone whose profession happened to be perfectly suited to the task.

Milkhakov was practically ideal.

Evenson was rather pleased with himself.

Then the flames around the quarrying machine suddenly went out.

The Ghost Rider leaped from the driver’s cabin.

He landed on his flaming wheels and immediately shot toward the nearby workshop.

Evenson’s expression changed.

Damn it.

The Ghost Rider had noticed them.

Meanwhile, Melinda and the S.H.I.E.L.D. strike team had already reached the workshop.

Using thermal imaging, they’d confirmed their target.

Danny was inside.

Only one guard was present.

It was almost too perfect.

Melinda didn’t hesitate.

She kicked the door open.

The man guarding Danny was one of Carrigan’s trusted men.

The same huge operative who had previously circled around and captured Nadia.

Until seconds earlier, he’d been crouched near the window, staring nervously at the battle outside.

His greatest hope had been simple.

Stay inside this little building.

Wait for the fighting to end.

Then emerge afterward and claim he’d survived the whole thing.

Unfortunately, reality had other plans.

The instant the door exploded inward, the already terrified guard spun around.

At the same time, he drew a compact submachine gun.

His plan was simple.

Whoever had entered, shoot first.

Ask questions never.

Then he realized something.

The people coming through the door had more guns than he did.

Much more.

S.H.I.E.L.D.’s strike teams were professionally trained.

Within a single second of breaching the doorway, at least three agents could already be inside.

And this time, they knew exactly where the enemy was standing.

A short burst of muffled gunfire followed.

The guard never got a single shot off.

He dropped dead.

The rest was straightforward.

Some agents secured the room.

Others moved to rescue Danny.

Melinda was already at his side.

The moment she saw the boy, her protective instincts took over.

She quickly cut through his restraints and was preparing to comfort him.

But Danny didn’t look frightened.

He looked strangely calm.

Then he tilted his head slightly.

"He’s here."

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