Page 156 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“Don’t look!” I scream, standing to try to block her from the sight of her family’s charred remains. “Go back! Run!” She doesn’t listen, scrambling around me, collapsing next to the smoking corpses of her mother and father. Her entire body shakes as she reaches toward them, skin burning as she tries to pull them out.

Cailleach lifts her chin. “They’re dead. Get up,” she orders Marsaili. Once again, magic permeates the air, and she is yanked to her feet, her body held up by the Cutter’s wicked power.

Her eyes slide to me, and she pulls a sharp, bloodstained dagger from her waist, tossing it at my feet. “Pick it up.”

“No,” I gasp, but Cailleach’s magic spreads, wrapping around me like a serpent, forcing my body to bend to her will. My fingers wrap around the cold dagger, and a cold sweat breaks out along my neck.

The Cutter tilts her head, her lips twisting into a cruel smile. “Kill her.”

The breath is stolen from my lungs, my vision turning black at the edges. “What? No⁠—”

“Slit her throat.”

“No. Run to the cairn!” I scream to Marsaili, but the Cutter flips a finger, and she stills. I grit my teeth against the magic, but my feet move of their own volition. I dig my heels in, trying to refuse. “Goddess, help me,” I beg, but it’s no use. The strength of her magic is more than I can bear, and before I know it, I’m standing behind the woman, blade against her throat.

“This is your fault, you know. You escaped. And now her, and her entire family’s deaths will stain your soul forever, just like your filthy hands.”

Tears prick my eyes, the magic forcing me to press the dagger harder against her neck, and the woman gasps.

“Please don’t kill me,” she begs. Not to me, but to the Cutter.

I fight to pull my arm back. I will not kill this woman. I will not send her below before her time. My muscles burn, my temples throbbing in agonizing pain, but somehow, my hand moves back a fraction. A gap forms between her neck and the blade, then grows another finger-width bigger.

“Kill her!” Cailleach roars, but I do not listen.

I fight even harder, tunneling into every bit of strength I have. Blood streams from my nose in rivers, the pain in my head spreading down my spine. Maybe this will kill me. I do not wish to die this way, but I will. I will die a thousand deaths if it saves this kind soul who offered me help with no questions or accusations. This woman who looked at me with kindness instead of fear and hatred.

I somehow manage to take a single step back.

“Try to run, Marsaili. Fight!” I beg her, but she remains still as stone, her eyes wide with terror.

“Run!” I scream. “You can fight it!” I prepare to turn around. To hurl the dagger at Cailleach. To dive at her. To fight until my dying breath, long enough to allow the woman to escape. But in a blink, there’s a body pressed against my back, and a cold, jewel-encrusted hand on top of mine, violently ripping the dagger across the woman’s neck.

I feel the blade tear through muscle and tendon, not a smooth, quick movement, but rough and violent and uneven. It’s sickening. Horrifying.

Hot, sticky blood spurts onto my hands, and bile rises up my throat as the woman crumples. I catch her, pressing my hands to her neck, desperate to stop the flow of blood, but it gushes through my fingers, trickling down my forearms. A scream rips from my throat, violent and savage.

“I’m sorry,” I sob, but the word turns into wet gurgles as the blade is drawn across my own throat, and the world goes dark.

71

BRENNEN

Bea’s gaze goes glassy for a long moment, and I hold my breath, guilt already coursing through my body. Her eyes widen, and her breath hitches as she lifts a trembling hand to cover her mouth.

“What?” She breathes. “I don’t—” Her entire body begins to shake, tears filling her eyes, then spilling over.

A sob bursts from her throat, a rough, painful sound that resonates deep within my chest, and I pull her to me, wrapping my arms around her to hold her together. Her sobs only grow, and the regret is unbearable. Bitter, and I wish I could take my question back. I shouldnae have asked. It’s the reason I hadnae when she told me how to trigger the curse to begin with. I knew it would cause her pain. That it would betray her trust.

By the time I didnae care about losing more magic, the reason wasn’t important anymore. Not when I know in my heart who she is. Not when I know she would never have chosen to do what she did.

I’d only asked now because I need to protect my family. If the curse is what caused her to kill, I need to know so I can find a way around it. But there were other questions I could have asked. If she would ever hurt anyone again. If there was any chance her mind could break once more. Ways I could confirm what I needed to know without forcing her to relive it all.

“It’s okay, mo chridhe.” I cup the back of her head, speaking into her hair as I rock her gently back and forth. “Whatever you saw, we will find a way through it. I can keep you away from people. I’ll find a way to keep you—and everyone—safe. I willnae leave you alone.”

She can hardly catch her breath through her sobs, her fingernails digging into my skin as she clings to my arms like everything she loves has been ripped violently from her hands, and she’s scared I will be, too. Tears burn my own eyes. There is supposed to be right and wrong, but in trying to do the right thing, I’ve hurt her. Caused her pain beyond anything else I could have done, and I’m not sure I can undo it.

“I don’t— I don’t think I did it,” she says through her sobs. “No, I’m certain. It wasn’t me who killed them.”