Page 26 of Katya and the Young God

Feketer gives Katya a significant look, as if they hadn’t had this conversation.

“They’ll have all the camping gear up there waiting, and they’re set to have a big meal for us up there tonight, so you don’t have to worry too much in the way of supplies.”

And that answers the question why Katya got very little handed to her when she got here.

* * *

They leave shortly after,when true daybreak hits and the sunlight glitters through the dew and damp of the forest undergrowth.

The first part is a trail, well-established. The Golem, easily the most distinctive out of them with a skin made from stone and a blank face, ducks away on more than one occasion.

But, after an hour of well-tread trail, JD stops them with a single raised fist. He’s bouncy, light on his feet, like he is full of too much energy and can’t burn it off at a quick enough pace.

Katya’s not exactly at the back of the pack—that position belongs to Pieter and Stepan ——but keeping up with everyone is not exactly easy on her, with the pack holding her back. Still, no matter how far behind she falls, the Demigod is an even distance behind, too far away for any conversation but always within wary eyesight.

It’s like he wants to keep her in sight as much as she does. Like their very placement on the trail is some battle, where she could pull out her weapon at any point.

Which, she could, but she’s far too busy sweating to pull out her pistol, especially this early into the adventure.

It’s a lot easier to not be afraid of him when they’re both sweating in the woods than in an unfamiliar building where she’s kept off guard.

“Trail stops here,” JD says as soon as everyone catches up, with Pieter glowering a few arms’ reach away. “Rest of the way is uncut, so watch your step.”

As if because of some unspoken contract, everyone takes a break, unloading their packs, getting out bottles of water, and Katya tugs her bag off without any complaint. It’s been far too long at sea level for her to complain about getting a break a mile up a mountain.

Feketer gives her a nod, before passing her a towel he had tucked somewhere in his bag. “This is what I meant about more Colorado.”

“It’s the elevation, not the distance,” Katya says, shedding her jacket and flannel. It’s heating up enough that it’ll be muggy midday, and that’s not exactly something she’s looking forward to. “Remember, pre-dawn hikes every week.”

He smiles, but it falters, his eyes falling to her shoulder and…

Ah.

It’s been a bit since she’s worn just a tank top, and her scar is brutal and red against her skin. And it’s just nasty enough that people can’t help but notice, can’t help but stare, can’t help but inquire about it.

“Is that a bullet wound?” Feketer asks, after a moment of discomfort. She’s acutely aware of Pieter’s eyes on her, but she doesn’t look back at him.

“Nope,” she says, because describing it has never been her strong point, and what do you even say when the brother of the perpetrator is standing not five feet away.

Feketer gives her the sort of look that one gives a bug that’s too big for one to squish, then shrugs, drifting away, leaving her with the towel to wipe off her face.

Everyone is uncomfortable with the scar. Dress clerks get uncomfortable with the scar. Her friends avoid the subject, the one lover she’s had since she got it told her it was ugly, and any random passerby that sees it gets horrified.

Even those who are inhuman, who do not have the same basic biology as her, shy away from it.

“I see he did leave a mark.” Behind her, Pieter sits down on a rock at the small clearing, and his voice isn’t mocking. Isn’t despairing. Just stating the fact. Stepan sits at his feet, flopping over like this is a normal trip outside.

She looks at him head on, instead of just keeping him in her peripheral. “Well, humans scar when that sort of injury occurs,” she says, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

His face is just as blank as she kept her voice. “I would have thought you received medical help.”

“I did,” she says, tying off the towel on one of the straps of her bag. “I can’t regenerate limbs or anything. It left a scar.”

He inclines his head, as if giving her that, and the frown hasn’t exactly left his face, but it’s not as severe.

“You knew that, though,” she says, and has to consciously keep the bite out of her voice because she’s a professional. “You put your hand right against it in the hall.”

“I guessed,” he says, and when talking like this, when talking like normal, his accent is much more pronounced than Iakov’s. “You walk differently on that side than you did before.”

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