Page 69 of Katya and the Young God

She turns off the kill switch for all her messages she had prepped, takes down all of her emergency ‘in case she didn’t return’ fail safes, a bitter well in her stomach as she does so. Like she shouldn’t have returned so empty-handed.

After a few minutes of laying in the sun, Stepan the dog climbs to his feet, giving her a significant look, then lumbers off the porch, before stopping and looking back at her.

Carefully tucking her laptop back into the cabin —no need to tempt any passing thieves—Katya shoves her feet into a pair of walking shoes, straps her pistol to her shoulder holster, and follows after him.

As soon as the dog sees her following, he sets off on a meandering pace, stopping and sniffing every which way, and Katya shoves her hands in the pockets of her jeans and follows, her heart hammering.

It seems almost transgressive, to follow Stepan to what is most likely the house of her former enemy, like she should be offering him more space, more privacy. Like she’s intruding, merely by pacing with a dog along an invisible path through the dense forest.

Stepan climbs over roots and flinty white rocks, over gnarled stumps of trees long fallen, tromping over new growth and leafy greens that grow around hip height everywhere. The dirt smells of moss, smells of wet, smells of green growth. Smells of vitality, despite the leaves barely beginning to turn colors overhead. Smells of promise yet untouched by humans.

There are no roads anywhere, no electric lines, no signs of mankind except for the occasional plane flying overhead, far up in the distance.

The walk stretches Katya’s legs, stretches the knot in her shoulder, like her body got so used to walking that even a morning without froze her up again.

At one point, Stepan stops, carefully selects a stick, and holds it gently between his teeth.

Katya lets him meander, trying not to think of what could be ahead, but it only takes less than twenty minutes until another small cabin comes into view.

There are solar panels on the top, a tiny chimney, and around the same amount of porch as hers. The curtains to the windows are firmly shut, but no light peeks from under the door.

Stepan walks right up to it, whining in the back of his throat, before scratching at the door, and Katya hangs back.

It’s hewn from logs, obviously a modern construction, despite the secluded nature. There’s a clear parking area for a car, and a stump with an ax dug in nearby, wood chipping all over the place around it.

There’s magic in the air around it, old magic, the sort that comes from runes, and her first step over the property sends a chill down her back. Like it’s testing her, seeing what she’ll do next, appraising her to see if she’s trustworthy.

She holds perfectly still, and Stepan lets out a loud whine at her.

“I know, boy,” she says, standing in place, the magic poking and prodding around her, and she wants to ask how the hell he did that if he’s so depleted of power. “Give me a sec.”

After a few seconds of pressure, of the sensation of being read, the magic lessens, almost letting her go, letting her cross deeper in. Like she somehow gained his permission.

Runes are a finicky bit of magic, one that she only has an intermediate grasp of, and unless she’s able to lay eyes on the written runes and read them for what they are, she has no way of knowing if it’s some system Pieter put in place to see who’s going to his house, or if he let latent magic do the work, testing the intention of whoever comes near.

Either way, it let her in.

She dusts her hands off on her jeans, pulling out her lock picks as she approaches the door, but the knob turns without the need for a lock.

Stepan bounds inside, sniffing intently, dashing to each room, and Katya’s heart breaks a little. The dog’s clearly searching for his master, and clearly confused about where he is.

“Awww, it’s okay,” Katya says, impulsive, and the dog doesn’t even spare her a glance before dashing deeper into the cabin.

The cabin is...sparse.

There’s a small table, only meant for one person, shoved up against the window looking out, and a single place setting in the drying rack next to the sink. Two pans hang over the stove, and an ancient refrigerator chugs against the wall.

A couch, opposite a small television, decorates the other side of the room, with a blanket thrown over the end, clearly for the dog. A small pile of chew toys and balls sits in a low basket next to it, the brightest thing in the whole room.

She can’t shake the feeling that she’s intruding on something deeply private. There’s a dark hallway, with just two pictures hung. One, an old tintype, of Pieter and Vanya, standing close to each other, in suits that belong much closer to the Old West than now.

Katya touches the edges of it, and it’s cool, obviously older than her by a century. It takes her no time to find Pieter, his face more serious than Vanya’s, where Vanya’s eyes are smiling even in such a solemn pose.

Next to it is a modern snapshot of the two of them, seated in a Vegas lounge, wearing casual clothes, and it must be only a few years old. Vanya’s chatting with someone off camera, his smile wide and honest, exactly how it was when he had tortured Katya.

Pieter’s more muted, but his eyes are alight, obviously listening to the same conversation, and it’s happier than she’s ever seen him. Than he ever was under the mountain.

If it isn’t for the hair styles, for the clothing, the pictures could’ve been taken days apart.

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