Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
Morrigan
The Siren's Betrayal
Bloom glided along the path as if it were a map on the back of her hand.
The girl had grown up here, isolated and unaware.
Plants bowed toward her; the very frost seemed to retreat from her passing.
Even without the memories of her past lives, the affinity remained—the goddess of spring, whispering to the roots in the dark.
Morrigan had never walked this part of the world before. In this timeline, Demeter had hidden Persephone in a forgotten French town, nestled against a forest that clung to its old magic. The place was remote, steeped in enough whispered curses to deter the mortals from looking too closely.
Demeter had chosen well.
But Hades had sensed the girl. He always did, eventually.
Bloom led her to a lake, its surface a dark mirror staring back at the sky.
Morrigan halted at the water’s edge and gazed down. Her own reflection stared back.
She was gorgeous. She knew it without vanity.
Tall and elegant, she was the kind of beauty that made men stupid and gods careless.
Piercings adorned her nose, eyebrows, and lips—silver trophies of rebellion earned over centuries.
Crimson rings circled her irises, the permanent mark of the siren queen.
Even in simple mortal clothes—leggings and a jacket—she looked stunning.
Everyone wanted her, except the one who mattered.
Hades treated her as little more than an assistant. His gaze only ever fixed on Persephone, no matter how many times the goddess died and left him broken. He could have Morrigan. She was loyal. Devoted. A true queen in bed. She could give him everything Persephone never could.
Yet he chose to walk through hell over and over for the minor goddess who brought him nothing but curses. Persephone had diminished him, weakened him, turned the feared God of Death into a lovesick fool waiting centuries for a woman who kept dying.
But Hades couldn’t see it. Not while Persephone still breathed.
This had to be corrected. And it would be. Today.
This was Persephone’s final chance. If she died in this timeline, there would be no more reincarnations. The cycle would end. One hundred lives. One hundred deaths. The Goddess of Spring would be no more.
So decreed the Three Sisters.
“Is it here?” Morrigan asked, dragging her gaze from her reflection.
“Wait.” Bloom’s eyes remained fixed on the center of the lake.
Morrigan folded her arms. She had waited an eternity for what she wanted—for what she deserved. She could wait a few more minutes.
Then, something at the bottom of the lake began to glow. Soft at first, then brighter—a star kindling in the deep.
Bloom stripped off her jacket and dove in.
The water must have been biting, but the girl didn’t surface gasping. She swam down with purpose, her red hair streaming behind her like a trail of blood in the black water.
When she broke the surface again, she cradled a glowing plant in her hand.
Mortis Bloom.
Its petals were silver, edged in crimson, pulsing with a faint light. The stem gleamed like liquid obsidian, and its roots shone pale and intricate, woven like threads of moonlight.
“That’s it,” Bloom breathed, a plume of frost escaping her blue-tinged lips. “We have it.”
A sigh of relief escaped Morrigan’s chest.
It felt like a miracle, and the Fates had arranged it beautifully—the only cure, growing in the very forest where Bloom was raised. Poetic.
“I was afraid it wouldn’t be here,” Bloom said, treading water. “But it was waiting.” She shivered. “The antidote for Hera’s Whip requires blood and tears.”
“I can do that for him,” Morrigan said from the bank.
Bloom shook her head, cradling the root ball, her touch protective. “Only I can do that—it must be my blood and tears.”
Morrigan felt a sharp twinge of annoyance. A small, cold comfort was that Bloom still didn’t know that Nero was Hades. Persephone could never know him the way Morrigan did.
“There’s no need for you to be soaked, too,” Bloom added softly and lowered her gaze.
Two tears fell on the silver petals, and Morrigan recognized the ritual of purging the death flower’s latent poison, leaving only its healing essence behind.
“Now I need to bind it and contain the healing essence,” Bloom offered as she bit into the pad of her thumb, and blood welled.
She darted Morrigan a quick glance, as if she was hesitant to reveal her secrets, before she called her magic forth.
Her fingers flexed and twisted as if weaving threads.
Morrigan couldn’t see them, but she felt the intent of the Queen of Death and Life settle over Mortis Bloom as a stream of light and shadow bound root, stem, and petal.
A cold knot tightened in Morrigan’s stomach.
This reincarnation of Persephone was awakening faster than any of the previous ninety-nine.
None of the others had come this far. Physically, this version was the frailest—the girl who’d needed an inhaler to breathe.
Yet she’d overcome that and more. She’d survived multiple attempts on her life.
Given more time, she would piece everything together.
And then Morrigan’s plans—so perfectly aligned with the Fates’ design—would crumble. Persephone would take it all back. Hades, the throne, the dark realm.
Mortis Bloom blazed for a heartbeat, then its glow settled into a soft, steady pulse.
“It’s done,” Bloom said.
“Good job, Bloom,” Morrigan said, watching the girl struggle through the black water. “Nero will be saved.”
“Thank you for coming with me,” Bloom replied, her voice thick with gratitude.
Innocent. Trusting. Stupid.
“Anytime,” Morrigan said smoothly, and sent a silent signal through her siren’s call.
Footfalls broke the silence, crunching through the frost from every direction.
Bloom went still, then swam faster, one hand cradling the Mortis Bloom protectively against her chest.
“It’s Kingsley’s men!” Morrigan hissed. “They followed us.”
Over a dozen figures closed in from the trees. Minor gods in various forms. She had let the Fates know about this trip, and the sisters had sent their agents to collect the goddess-turned-mortal.
On the surface, Morrigan had always helped Persephone. But she had never hated anyone more—not the goddess’s innocent act, not her wide gray eyes, not the way Hades looked at her as if she were his sun.
Bitterness, hot and corrosive, brewed in Morrigan’s chest. Persephone always ruined everything.
Did she even understand the torment she caused?
She died and escaped into oblivion each time, free of memory and pain.
But Hades could not escape. He remembered every death, every lifetime, every loss. He was broken because of her.
And Morrigan was always there to pick up the pieces. To comfort him. To wait for him to see her.
And he only ever waited for Persephone to return.
“Swim!” Morrigan urged, her voice taut with feigned fear.
A net appeared in the hunters’ hands.
Bloom sucked in a sharp breath, standing a dozen feet from the bank, her soaked clothes hugging her willowy figure. “I won’t make it,” she said, and Morrigan hid her glee. “But you will!”
Bloom was right about one thing: she wouldn’t be returning to Hades.
With a flick of her wrist, Bloom hurled Mortis Bloom toward Morrigan, who dove and caught it.
“They don’t want you,” Bloom continued. “It’s me they’re after. The cure has to reach Nero.”
“I can’t leave you!” Morrigan clutched the bloom to her chest. The lie was smooth, honed by centuries.
“You must!”
“Nero will kill me if I return without you.” That, at least, might be true.
“This is the only way.” Bloom’s voice cut through the cold air. “Tell Nero I knocked you out. Say whatever you need to. Just get him the antidote!”
“But—” Morrigan let her expression fracture, a mask of torn loyalty.
She would deliver the cure, heal Hades, and claim the credit. His gratitude would be a gateway. He’d finally see her.
Hunters encircled the lake. Several plunged into the black water, and some of them shifted toward Morrigan with predatory speed.
“Go!” Bloom screamed. Her wind blasted forward, hurling hunters aside. From the frozen earth, thorned vines exploded, snaking around limbs and dragging figures down.
Morrigan’s hands flicked outward. Metal stars whirred through the gloom, sinking deep into the shoulders of the two hunters who came after her. They crumpled.
Morrigan turned to meet Bloom’s gaze across the chaos, offering the girl exactly what she needed to see: understanding, gratitude, a loyalty to Nero that overrode all else.
“I’ll come back for you!” Morrigan shouted, her voice breaking on cue. “I promise!”
The last thing Morrigan saw was the dark net falling on Bloom in the water.
Morrigan didn’t look back.
She ran. Her remaining throwing stars cut through any hunter who lunged too close. They wanted Bloom, yes, but they also wanted the cure to never reach Nero. That part didn’t align with Morrigan’s plans at all.
She needed Hades healed. Needed him grateful.
Persephone was done. As it was meant to be. As the Fates had woven.
Nero could finally move on. He could shed this broken, pining version of himself and become what he was always meant to be: the most fearsome God of Death, King of the Underworld. Not a lovesick ghost waiting on a shore.
Morrigan would be there when he needed comfort in his grief. As she had always been.
His eons of obsession would finally end. His eyes would clear. And for the first time, he would truly see her without Persephone.
An eon of loyalty. Of loving him from the shadows.
Now, at last, Morrigan would get what she’d always wanted.
Hades.