Page 27 of Katya and the Young God

And she did a lot of things differently than she did before, and it’s a bitter taste in her mouth. “I bet,” she retorts, harsher than she wants to. “You look older.”

All at once, she’s aware that everyone in the small clearing is quiet. Listening to them, and it just sets off the prickly feeling more. Like she can’t get privacy anywhere, like this conversation needs privacy.

His face shutters, and the scowl deepens, but she turns away before she can see anything else he does, her heart hammering. Her hands don’t shake, but that’s more to many years of self-control than anything else.

With an awkward cough, the people in the group start talking again, light chatter, as if they weren’t just being nosy busybodies and trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

Grabbing her bag, she rejoins where Feketer’s talking with Rory the Vampire, and they both don’t look directly at her.

“Do I need to put the over shirt back on?” She asks, because this ignoring shit is going to get real tired if it continues for the entire three-day trip. “It’s just getting warm.”

Without looking at her, Feketer shakes his head, and, suddenly, she realizes he’s not avoiding look at her scar, but avoiding looking at her because he fears Pieter.

* * *

She spendsthe rest of the hike in silence, all but ignored by everyone except for the brooding scowls of Pieter and the sort of eyes skating off of her whenever someone chances glancing at her.

It’s the same look she got for her first few weeks out of the hospital, and she hates it. Hates it hates it hates it.

The trees around them are breathtakingly beautiful, the vistas gorgeous, and the greenery out of some sort of book on colors, and it’d be a hell of a lot better if she wasn’t some sort of pariah.

* * *

It’sclose to sundown when they crest over a particularly difficult bit of rock scrambling, when she starts to feel it.

Something between a chill and a fever sweat, something that sounds between a buzzing light bulb and a faraway high-pitched whine, too faint for her to hear clearly, but enough for the hair on the back of her neck to rise and for her to stop in her tracks.

“Ah, you hear it now,” Pieter says, stopping just out of arm's reach behind her, still not letting her be behind him. “I was wondering when humans pick it up.”

She swallows against the lump in her throat, and still, it’s buzzing in the back of her mind like some psychic mosquito. Like it claws at the back of her neck, barely reaching her, just grazing against her skin. “And that is...”

“That’s what we’re going for,” he says, and, gratifying, he takes out his own towel to wipe his face. She’s not the only person sweating during this trip. “That’s what’s in the cave.”

The entire group continues on ahead, not noticing they’ve stopped, and Katya tries to force her feet to go forward, to take another step, but they rebel, keeping her in place. Her knees lock, and she almost topples over.

“We’re not supposed to go in there,” she says unconsciously, and she can swear that the look the Demigod gives her is amused. “That’s not...that’s not right.”

“And that’s why it’s been undiscovered,” he says, idly reaching down and patting Stepan’s side, as if this short breather is a relief to him as well. “Most humans just feel dread, turn around. Give up.” He gives her a sideways glance, his slate gray eyes narrowed. “Whatever is here is not meant to be awoken idly.”

The spite, the knowledge that he wants her to give up, pushes her to move her feet, but her entire back is soaked now in cool sweat.

The noise sets her teeth on edge, like a dentist drill getting closer to her jaw.

“And yet, you’re here,” she shoots back, and hears him start to walk with her.

“I’m not doing this idly.”

There’s a nudge against her knee, and Stepan leans up against her as she walks, a welcome unbalance, but she doesn’t shoo him away, and instead scratches on the top of his hackles.

“Are they?”

The Demigod takes a small, quick intake of breath, the sort that less observant people would have missed. “That remains to be seen.”

“Dramatic,” she points out, and looks back enough to see him scowl.

He watches her, sharp, as she scratches Stepan’s head. “It’s not dramatic if it’s just stating a fact,” he says, like it’s a rote argument he’s made many, many times, but all of his attention is on her hand.

She can’t tell if it’s to make sure she’s not hurting his dog or what, and it prickles her in the back of her head in a way the sound of the cave only makes worse. “Is it a family trait, cause Iakov is worse and —"

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