Page 86 of Bound By Deception

Bree jerked upright, dropped the water skin, and drew the dagger at her hip in one smooth movement.

Still crouched, she swiveled left.

A bent figure, with its back to her, knelt at the water’s edge a few yards away. It was a crone with wispy white hair, and she appeared to be washing something.

Bree stilled.

Where had the old woman come from? This clearing had been empty when she’d come across the burn.

Bree tightened her grip on the dagger. A weapon wouldn’t help her though. Even without spying the woman’s face, she knew who she was. The crone was neither dead nor living, butthe Ben Neeya—the spirit of a woman who’d died in childbirth. It haunted the waterways of Albia, often appearing at dusk.

The Ben Neeya had never been sighted within the Shee realm, yet Bree remembered the tales. As such, a cold sweat broke out across her skin.

She was fortunate though, for the crone hadn’t seen her. She was too absorbed in her washing, in singing her dirge.

Indeed, if the Ben Neeya had caught sight of Bree first, it would beherclothing she’d be washing—a portent of her imminent death. But if Bree caught the Washerwoman unawares and spoke to her first, she would grant her one wish.

Heart pounding, Bree cleared her throat. “Good evening.”

The woman’s body jerked, and she turned her head, revealing a hollowed face, rheumy eyes, and protruding yellowed teeth. As the stories told, the crone was hideous.

Bree rose to her feet and forced herself to stand her ground.

Moments passed, and then the Ben Neeya gave a bitter, wheezing laugh, her chapped hands clutching at the clothing she washed. “Ask me then,” she rasped. “But choose carefully … for you get only one wish.”

Bree’s mind scrabbled, her heart slamming against her ribs, before she blurted, “Spare Cailean mac Brochan’s life.”

White-hot panic surged through her the moment the words left her lips. Of all the things she could have wished for, this was it? The Great Raven forgive her, she was a traitor to her people. She’d fallen hard for the man she’d been sent to deceive.

The Washerwoman stared back at her before a sad smile eventually twisted her lips. “I cannot grant you this wish.”

Heat flushed over Bree, and she started to sweat. “Why?”

The Ben Neeya’s gaze glinted. “Because I sense your conflict … your indecision. If you truly wish to change your man’s fate,youmust be the one to save him.”

Bree dragged in a ragged breath. “Me?”

“Aye.”

Dizziness washed over Bree then. Backing away toward the shelter of the trees, her pile of firewood forgotten, she shook her head. She wanted to deny the old woman’s response, but she couldn’t.

The Ben Neeya always spoke the truth.

An instant later, she lost her nerve, spun on her heel, and plunged blindly back into the trees. She crashed through the undergrowth, heedless of the low-hanging branches that smacked her in the face.

All she cared about was escaping the crone, and what she’d just told her.

By the time Bree burst from the trees, her breathing tore from her chest in ragged gasps and hysteria beat inside her like a caged crow.

Flint’s head jerked up, his nostrils flaring, at her sudden appearance. But Bree paid the garron no mind. Instead, she paced before the single birch, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.

She had to breathe—to calm down.

But she couldn’t.

If you truly wish to change your man’s fate, you must be the one to save him.

The Ben Neeya’s rasped words echoed through her head, slicing deep each time.

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