A Curse of Blood and Bloom

Copyright © 2023 by Santana Saunders All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Created with Vellum For anyone who is homesick for the part of their story that hasn’t happened yet. You’ll find your stars. And it will be glorious. CONTENTS 1. Evanthe Sideris 2. Evanthe Sideris 3. Aero Vouvali 4. Evanthe Sideris 5. Aero Vouvali 6. Evanthe Sideris 7. Evanthe Sideris 8. Aero Vouvali 9. Evanthe Sideris 10. Aero Vouvali 11. Evanthe Sideris 12. Aero Vouvali 13. Evanthe Sideris 14. Aero Vouvali 15. Evanthe Sideris 16. Evanthe Sideris 17. Aero Vouvali 18. Evanthe Sideris 19. Aero Vouvali 20. Evanthe Sideris 21. Aero Vouvali 22. Evanthe Sideris 23. Aero Vouvali 24. Evanthe Sideris 25. Aero Vouvali 26. Evanthe Sideris 27. Evanthe Sideris 28. Aero Vouvali 29. Evanthe Sideris 30. Evanthe Sideris 31. Aero Vouvali 32. Evanthe Sideris 33. Aero Vouvali 34. Evanthe Sideris 35. Evanthe Sideris Author’s Note Acknowledgments About the Author 1 EVANTHE SIDERIS * * * It has been thirteen years and one Noonsnight since I killed my mother. Hers was the shortest reign in history. Swift and so very unremarkable. All my life I watched her scrape and claw her way through the seemingly never-ending throngs of ruthless adversaries. Yet, it wasn’t until her last breath that I finally understood the obsession she carried. The somber forest smelled of damp moss and peppery bark. Its thick canopy hovered too closely, its dense floor choked with brambles. I weaved between them and leapt over the unruly roots that snaked through its rich earth, cringing at the way its wet, cool mud filled the crevices of my toes. My heart hammered so hard inside my chest I feared it might burst from my body. But I didn’t stop. Not until I found her. A tethering of vines rose from her feet through the matted honey hair atop her head, blood spilling from the spear lodged in her chest. My hands tore at the ivy, scrambling to free her. To ward off the Reaper who certainly came for her. But the Reaper isn’t afraid of anyone, much less a terrified fourteen-year-old girl. My mind was racing for a way to right the wrong I had made when she leaned in closer and uttered the last words I would ever hear her say. “You have to take back the throne.” She desperately grasped the hem of my shirt, casting a tether to my soul. “Bring glory to our name once more, Evanthe.” I knew that day would come. That it was only a matter of time, but it didn’t stop the strangled cry from escaping me. When the fire behind her eyes faded away, the flame inside mine only grew. The sky wept and thunder rolled without pause for days. My aunts said it was Skira’s tears falling from the stars, but the elders insisted that Skira was showering them with life in celebration of the new monarch. That my mother had merely been a placeholder until the right time had come for Athena to sit upon the throne. But I knew within the deepest part of my bones that Skira would never celebrate such a death. That she knew my mother belonged on that throne. There is something beautiful about the way the forest floor refuses to cover the dirt where her body last lay, no matter how many years have passed. This island still honors her even if the people of Meraki would rather pretend she never existed outside the Chronicles. The leaves of the forest sway in unison, tiny flags waving in salute to her legacy. My eyes well up at the sight, as they do each year, and I allow one tear to fall upon my cheek. But only one. I pull out the small glass tincture from my satchel, raise the pipette above my mouth, and let two drops fall under my tongue. A tart, acidic flavor fills my mouth. The wave of grief fades as the all-too-familiar veil falls over me, a numbness taking its place. Mine is not the life of mourning. No, I do not have that luxury. There is work to be done and vengeance to be paid. I hoist the heavy carrying pole onto my shoulders and trudge on the beaten path that leads into the city. The weight grows heavier with each step. Sweat drips from my brow and onto my eyelashes. The salt stings and blurs my vision. Skira as my witness, if lugging these jugs of milk from thicket to stands day after day doesn’t earn me a stone again in the next Games, I swear I’ll burn the whole blithering island to its bones. According to the Starwatcher’s most recent prediction, there are only 397 more days until I can take the throne. There will be no room for error, no days off, and certainly no distractions allowed. The woodland edge in sight, a cacophony of babies crying, people chattering, and dogs barking reverberates off the forest walls. I take in a deep breath and brace myself for the chaos that is my city, Parea. A whirlwind of merchants and their patrons blow me left then right in a dance to avoid a catastrophic collision. One wrong move and all this week’s milk will be in the dirt. I hate them—people. Most people. I don’t know how my mother did it, listening to all their insignificant woes day after day. No common sense or decency. They stomp and claw their way through anyone or anything for the sake of whatever personal gain they’ve deemed crucial in that moment. Inconsiderate fools, every one of them. Their whispers flitter around me. That’s the daughter of the fallen Beta Sideris. I think her name is Evanthe. I hear the poor thing lives in