Page 27 of The Demon and the Broken Girl

She nods. “Dirroth is territorial and fierce, but even he can sense your aura. There’s something unspoken—some contract you made?”

My mind races back to the catacombs beneath House Vaerathis, where Calla freed me. A deal was struck, hastily, in the throes of desperation. I told her every power demands a price. But in the chaos of escaping, we never revisited that bargain. It’s a law of my demonic existence, one I cannot escape. Payment always comes.

Amalia’s gaze slides toward Calla, who’s now standing, tension marking her face. “You should tell her,” Amaliamurmurs, voice kind but firm. “It’s cruel to keep them in the dark.”

My heart twists. I never intended cruelty. Fear of losing them—fear of losing her—made me delay that conversation. Admitting the truth might drive them away. Or worse, it might lead them to some tragic end, because the price for demonic assistance is rarely small or simple.

Before I can respond, Dirroth’s growl fills the cave. We all jerk, expecting violence, but instead he’s gazing into the darkness beyond our makeshift shelter, bones shifting in agitation. A second later, I feel it too—something prowls outside. Another waira, or some other forest predator?

Amalia’s expression tightens. “Dirroth, is it…?”

He nods, aura flaring a deep red, the color of impending battle. “Another waira. Not from my territory. An intruder.” His stance turns predatory, claws flexing in anticipation.

Fear surges through Calla. She glances at me, then at Silas. “We can’t handle another fight,” she whispers. Jenna’s condition is precarious, and none of us are well-rested.

Amalia looks at Dirroth. “Maybe it’ll move on?”

Dirroth snorts. “If it found our scent, it might be hungry. Waira do not share territory lightly.” His gaze falls on me, and there’s an unspoken question—Will you fight by my side if it attacks?

I meet his look with grim understanding. We might not have the luxury of neutrality. If a hostile waira arrives, it could see us all as prey, ignoring Dirroth’s claim. Even Dirroth might be forced to defend us if we’re in his lair, because the other waira will view all of us as potential kills. Ironically, we’ve become Dirroth’s responsibility, as bizarre as that seems.

A tense moment stretches. Cole’s knuckles whiten around a scavenged dagger. Ryn edges protectively nearer to Jenna, her breathing shallow but steady. Silas shifts in place, crossbowtrembling in his hands. Calla stands behind me, her presence a steady warmth against my back.

I close my eyes, summoning what remains of my power. “If it comes to a fight,” I say softly, “we’ll help. But we can’t hold out for long. Our group is weakened.”

Dirroth releases a low, rumbling growl, which I interpret as acceptance. He lopes toward the mouth of the cave, the flicker of red in his chest intensifying. Amalia glances at me once more, worry etched in her features. “Stay with them. Protect them if things go wrong.”

With that, she hurries after Dirroth, stepping into the twilight. I exchange a glance with Calla, who’s pale but resolute. “Stay alert,” I whisper.

Time drags. The hush outside is deafening, broken only by faint scuffles of movement. My nerves coil like a spring. The mortals huddle near the fire, eyes flicking between the cave entrance and me. My mind echoes with Amalia’s words about the price. The guilt churns. But we can’t confront that now.

A sudden thunder of snarls reverberates from outside. The torchlight trembles with the vibration of massive bodies colliding. Silas curses under his breath, and Calla edges closer. I step forward, intending to see what’s happening, but a monstrous shriek rips through the gloom—a waira’s cry of rage. The intruder has arrived.

Dirroth’s silhouette flashes against the faint moonlight. He’s locked in a brutal struggle with another waira, this one sporting a skull reminiscent of a wolf, elongated jaws snapping. Their claws scrape the rocky ground, sending sparks. Amalia ducks back, eyes wide, searching for an opening to help her mate.

I dash out, ignoring the risk, black power crackling around my fingertips. If Dirroth falls, the intruder will turn on us. But the moment I step beyond the threshold, a hideous stench of decay floods my senses. The second waira’s aura glows a furiouscrimson, edges tinged in black. Fear and anger combined. Its jaws snap inches from Dirroth’s shoulder, tearing fur and sinew.

Dirroth roars, raking his claws down the intruder’s side, exposing pale bone beneath. They crash into a tree with enough force to splinter branches. I shift to the side, summoning a wave of demonic energy. The swirling shadows around my hands intensify. If I can land a decisive blow, maybe we can drive it off.

“Move!” Amalia yells to me, just as the intruder waira’s tail lashes out, a bony whip of spine and matted fur. I dodge, slamming my palm into its flank. My power surges, momentarily halting the creature’s lunge. It staggers, aura flickering dark. Dirroth seizes the opening and plunges his claws into the intruder’s chest cavity, twisting with brutal efficiency.

A wet shriek echoes in the night. The second waira thrashes, then slumps, spine cracking under Dirroth’s relentless grip. For an instant, I see the hatred in its eyes before the glow in its torso dims to nothing. The body collapses, half-limp, and Dirroth steps back, panting. His own essence burns an even deeper red, signaling rage. He grabs the intruder’s skull and wrenches with a sickening pop. The fight ends in savage finality.

Amalia rushes forward to place a hand on Dirroth’s side, murmuring soothing words. My own heart thunders, adrenaline leaving me shaky. Claws, fangs, blood—it’s a stark reminder that waira are not mere curiosities. They are apex predators.

Calla and Silas emerge from the cave, eyes wide at the carnage. Cole and Ryn remain inside, likely shielding Jenna’s gaze. Dirroth stands over the corpse, chest heaving, muzzle smeared with gore. Slowly, he glances at me. A nod, curt but unmistakable: an acknowledgment that I helped, though he wouldn’t call it gratitude.

I incline my head in return, keeping my distance from the remains. The stench is overwhelming. “Is it dead?” Calla asks softly, stepping around me to get a better look.

Dirroth snorts. “Dead enough,” he growls, tossing the severed skull aside. “I will burn it later. For now, we rest.” His aura fades from deep red to something closer to a dull green, the color of guarded territorial calm. “You fought well, half-demon.”

Despite the tension, I allow a wry smile. “Likewise.”

Amalia tears her gaze from the bloody scene. “Let’s go back inside,” she suggests, voice subdued. “We’ll have to be quiet in case others lurk nearby.”

We slip into the cave once more, Dirroth following after a final glance at his kill. He radiates a primal satisfaction, but I also see weariness in the sag of his massive shoulders. That was no easy fight, even for him.

Inside, Cole exhales in relief, while Jenna musters a faint question—“What happened?”—which Ryn answers quietly. Silas stands next to Calla, his face betraying conflicting emotions: horror at the brutality, grudging acceptance that we needed Dirroth’s help, and a flicker of guilt at not having done more.

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