Page 23 of Katya and the Young God

With another rattle of thunder, the power snaps off, and the dog just shakes. She sighs, leaning back against her kitchen cabinets, the only light coming from her phone.

“It’s just thunder,” she whispers, and despite herself her heart is pounding. “It’s just thunder and it will pass shortly.”

* * *

Hours pass,and the next thing she knows sunshine streams through the windows. Everything outside is damp, and she’s slept the entire night on the floor with a dog.

There’s a crick in her neck and her eyes are gritty, but the dog thumps its tail at her as she sits up.

For a split second, she just blinks at the dog, before climbing to her feet. The dog springs up, trotting to the door, tail whipping back and forth, as if its panic attack is completely gone from its memory.

On impulse, she leans against her table and scribbles out a note:

“Dog came to my cabin in the storm, sorry for concern. He seemed scared.”

She signs the note -neighbor, because signing with her name seems like a needless risk.

She tucks the note in the collar, hoping that it’ll stop any curious trip over, that any vengeful Demigod won’t come darkening her door.

The moment she opens the door, Stepan bounds out, splashing in the giant puddle that accumulated across her porch, before he dashes away, tongue lolling out.

She watches him run away, shaking her head at herself and the farce that has become her life.

* * *

Two more days.

She drives to Denver, picking up her tracking and listening bugs, picking up batteries for a small headlamp, picking up several pairs of sturdy leather rock climbing gloves and some light leather knee pads. A few new sports bras, ones coming recommended by cavers and backpackers. Things she didn’t trust JD or whatever the minor demon said they’d get for her.

On impulse, she swoops by an army surplus, picking up a few ultra-light MREs, in case food is light. She’s eaten worse, and the extra security could be good.

They expect some people to die, so she doesn’t know if they’re bringing enough food, and she’ll gladly bear the extra weight in the bags if it means she’ll have enough food coming back.

* * *

One more day.

She spends it on her porch with Stepan the dog sleeping steadily in the sun. She reads. She texts people. She researches obsessively about Colorado cave systems.

She stretches. Does some of the yoga that Los Angeles collectively tried to force her to enjoy. If she can’t quiet her mind, at the very least she can make sure her body won’t complain.

It’s rare she gets told that she could die before she’s actively in the situation.

She considers calling Miri, but any conversation they have would only needlessly worry Miri, and she’d rather not.

She considers quitting. Tendering her resignation, moving her stuff back to California, getting a job freelancing...something. Leave this problem in the mountains to others, wash her hands of any responsibility she could have, make it so she didn’t have to be the one to stop any crazed Demigods or minor demons or —

Or whoever it is who gets the power source.

But, of course, she dismisses that thought, it ringing so completely untrue she feels like a liar for even thinking it.

And when the sun sets over her tiny little cabin, she double checks her packed bag, then lays in bed for far too long, trying to quell the beating of her heart.

4

K(4:01 AM): If you get these texts and call back and I don’t pick up it’s because I’ll be in a literal cave with a bunch of people who may be down with human sacrifice and one of them is your new husband’s little brother.

K (4:02 AM): I’ll text when I’m back to signal.

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