My heart skipped a beat. I carried the book back to our table and opened it. The pages were thin and yellowed, the script flowing in a language that shifted as I gazed.
“Found something?” Sindy asked, leaning in.
“Maybe,” I said in a hushed voice. “I think it found me.”
I turned the pages with careful fingers. The text detailed Hera’s traits of jealousy, vindictiveness, and sovereignty over oaths. Then I found a chapter titledThe Weapons of Divine Treachery.
I traced the words:Hera forged three instruments to punish those who defied her. The Crown of Thorns, to invoke madness. The Chains of Binding, to restrain even Zeus. And the Whip of Eternal Suffering.
I read on, my pulse a quick drum against my throat.
The Whip carries a curse that feeds upon the victim’s own power, turning their strength against them. The more powerful the victim, the more the curse consumes. It cannot be healed by ordinary means, for the curse adapts and regenerates.
“That’s why Morrigan’s healing fails,” I whispered.
Sindy leaned in, her shoulder brushing mine. “Does it say how to break it?”
I turned the page. The script shifted, settling into clear, stark terms.
“The curse of Hera’s Whip can only be undone by three elements: the blood of one who truly loves the cursed, the tears of one who mourns them, and Mortis Bloom, the death flower that grows in light yet thrives in darkness, found only where the veil between worlds is thin.”
My breath caught. The blood was mine to give. The tears, I had in abundance. Only the bloom remained.
I turned the page. An illustration awaited, a detailed rendering of a plant with silver petals I recognized instantly.Mortis BloomwasMortem Flora. Legends claimed it held the most potent healing power, but only a goddess-touched hand could wield it.
And I wasn’t merely touched by divinity.
I was Persephone.
I knew exactly where to find Mortis Bloom?—
The forest near my old home in France.
The cursed woods where Mom had hidden us.
That place had always been strange, a tapestry of plants and flora that shouldn’t even exist. Now I understood why.
It felt like fate. But I didn’t have time to dwell on the implications.
The book laid out the instructions. Mortis Bloom had to be harvested under a new moon. Its roots must remain intact. Andthe seeker had to weave their healing magic into the plant while it was still fresh, binding their magic to its essence.
I could do that. I was a weaver. And Persephone’s ancient knowledge stirred within me, a rising tide.
I committed the instructions to memory and closed the book.
Chapter
Eleven
Bloom
Mortis Bloom
Nero slept more now. When awake, he was wrapped in silent agony, yet he never complained. He pretended that everything was fine, but the gray undertone to his skin, the deliberate slowness of his movements betrayed him. The curse was drinking him down, drop by drop.
And we couldn’t let our enemies see his weakness. Any sign, and Kingsley would strike.
I found Morrigan in the hallway outside Nero’s penthouse.
