Page 30 of Katya and the Young God

He takes a moment, clearly composing himself, and she’s inclined to let him, before he sighs. “Of course Stepan woke you up,” he says, voice rough.

At his name, Stepan wags his tail, with Katya’s sleeve still between his teeth.

She carefully, carefully wrestles her sleeve from the dog’s mouth, her eyes burning with too little sleep. As always, Pieter watches her, too sharp, and it grates along her spine.

“Why are you up?” She asks, and her voice is dry in the night air.

The moment she gets her sleeve free, Stepan grips her by her other arm, teeth gentle, pulling her forward.

Illuminated by the moon and the faded coals of the fire, she could swear she sees a hint of a curve of his lips, before he looks away. “Sleeping isn’t something that comes easy anymore.”

She turns back to the tent, and Stepan digs his feet in like how only an eighty-pound dog can. “I’m not sure why your dog thinks it’s my responsibility,” she says, trying —and failing—to keep the frosty tone out of her voice.

He scants a look towards her. “Stepan, down,” he says, soft, in Russian.

The dog’s blue eyes look over to him, then up at Katya, imploring, giving another tug against her sleeve.

It’s cold, but she doesn’t let him see her shiver.

It’s quiet, so quiet, this deep in the morning, the only sound the ever present not-buzz that sets her teeth on edge.

Belatedly, she realizes that both dog and Demigod are staring at her, openly. “You just remembered the sound, didn’t you?” He says, leaning back in the chair, stretching his legs before him, imitating a more confident pose. But lines of exhaustion bracket his face, and his eyes are far, far away.

“That must be murder on your senses,” she says, letting Stepan pull her along, until she sits on one of the camp chairs. Not next to him, that’d be too odd, too weird in these pre-dawn moments, but nearby.

He shrugs, a hair too late and a hair too stiff. “It’s not debilitating.”

Now that she’s seated, Stepan trots over and rests his head on Pieter’s lap, adoring.

“You really bringing such a sweet dog in the cave?” Katya asks, because talking about the dog is so much safer than anything else.

“No, he’s staying up here with JD,” he says, conversational. “I like having insurance that JD won’t skip out on us once we’re inside.” The moonlight casts his face in harsh, silvered light, and as he looks at her, he looks anything but human.

And she didn’t know JD isn’t going down with them, but if he’s just the financier, it makes some sort of sense he wouldn’t risk himself.

“And I can’t exactly bespell a demon, but I can make sure the things around him are...locked down.” He runs his finger over the collar, a familiar, tired motion. “And embroidering a collar is easy. Simple. Something a broken man might do.”

“And your runes can keep him here?”

“They’ll know if he tries to leave, and give a...strong discourager. Without him knowing.” He smiles, and for a brief second, he’s the Demigod from her nightmares, before it slips away, as quickly as it comes. “He’ll just think it’s better for him to stay with the nice, friendly dog.”

“My friends were impressed with the runes, before.” Her mind, slow as it might be with the lack of sleep after such a stressful day, shakes off some rust. She’s done things with little sleep before, she can do this.

There’s a long pause, long and vicious, like he’s gathering weapons, then discarding them for not being entirely what he wants.

“Your friends.” His voice is flat, flat in the still air, like it’s matching in pitch with the buzz of the cave.

“I see unfamiliar runes, I ask people about them,” she says, as inoffensively calm as she can muster this late at night.

He looks away, finally, and the pressure is off her chest the moment he does. Like he had pinned her down with the weight of his gaze, kept her from weaseling away.

He can do that, she knows, but it’s usually more blatant. Freezing shoes to the ground, not freezing people with fear.

“You know, it’s not fair,” Pieter starts, and she hears him forcing the words past a lump in his throat. “That my brother gets his happily ever after, your friend gets her fairytale wedding, and I’m...here.” Stepan shifts so he’s leaning against him, and he fists his hands in the dog’s thick fur. “Unable to sleep, unable to do what I want, with just a dog for company. And you.”

She swallows, looking at the trees instead of him, or worse, the cave.

But there’s no kick up of dark power, no rustling of leaves, no dramatic show of power fit for a TV show, just quiet, bitter words, spoken in those dark hours before dawn.

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