Chapter Nine
I find myself in Nostradamus’s memory once more.
I/he is bound in chains and in considerable pain, but what’s interesting is that he still has eyes to see with—which is how I know we’re in some sort of dank dungeon cell.
What’s even more interesting is whom he’s looking at.
It’s Tartarus himself and one of his children—except I only know this because that’s what Nostradamus thinks as he looks up.
To me, neither Tartarus nor the so-called child look the way I’d expect.
The “child” is a grown man with wild eyes and a permanent-seeming smirk on his face, while Tartarus looks like a kind and wise old woman.
As if to answer my confusion, Nostradamus thinks, “Tartarus is not Cassandra. She died ages ago. Everyone sees someone sacred to them when gazing upon this monster. That
