Page 12 of Katya and the Young God

She flips over her favorite punching dagger, fixing it into the hidden compartment in the heel of her combat boots. It’s not like she’s not going to wear these everywhere, fashion be damned. Probably less unusual out here.

She gets her hair sticks with their hidden copper stilettos, all her fun toys, and feels...a little bit more like herself. A little bit more set in her skin, a little bit more fitting into the cabin.

They even carefully wrapped up her ornate perfume oil bottles, the only luxury habit she kept from her time in Afghanistan. She carefully lines them up on her dresser, a sense of peace fitting over her.

MIRI (10:31 AM): Where’d they send you, anyways?

Katya pauses in her unpacking, in fitting a holster to the under edge of the table, contemplating the answer. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Miri, she trusts Miri an awful lot, but…

But the idea of trusting someone and trusting why they’re asking questions is different.

K (10:32 AM): Midwest mountainy area. It’s pretty.

MIRI (10:33 AM): And you went?

Katya doesn’t have an answer for that, so she ignores the text, and begins compulsively hiding weapons around the place. It’s likely that they already catalogued everything and now know all of it, but it still soothes something deep inside. That people could come in and she could know that there’s something to defend herself no matter where she is.

The day passes too quickly, in a haze of unpacking and fitting herself into the small space, in shelving her books and hanging her clothes, and way before she’s ready it’s time for her to get into her suit, to strap her gun back to her waist and one under her arm, to hide the knives—copper and regular—in her pockets. To coil her wire bracelet around her wrist, to lace her belt through its loops, to thread her earrings through her ears. They drag, a little bit heavy, but they look way more fashionable than they have any right to.

She’s considered getting her tongue pierced in the past, to be able to wear a small handcuff pick in her mouth, but dismissed that as being just a bit too paranoid even for her.

She even brushes her hair, the severe black bob grazing her chin. Just long enough to put up if she really wants to, just short enough that no one thinks she can.

Carefully, she thumbs her favorite button recorder through the buttons on her jacket. She bought this suit jacket specifically because all the buttons look like her small cameras.

She opens her door to find Feketer sitting on the porch and the dog nowhere to be found.

He glances at her sideways, his brow quirking, eyes falling to the gun and knife on her hip. “They won’t like you bringing in weapons,” he warns.

“That’s nice,” she replies, giving him an equally appraising look.

He’s dressed in—near as Katya can tell—nicer jeans than usual and a pressed shirt, sensible shoes, and no visible weapons. Like he’s expecting to go out for food with a group of friends, not a potentially deadly meeting.

“They have a minor demon—he’s more likely to throw you out than let you in.”

And while the idea of being thrown out and then not having to deal with any of it seems pretty awesome, she makes a show out of unclipping her holster and her one visible knife, putting it inside on the giant behemoth of a desk. He glances in after her, his brows drawn together, at the crowded amount of furniture they have splayed out for her.

“They’re really having you stay out here?” He asks, and she can’t tell if he’s really skeptical or if he’s faking it for her. “If they expected you to die down there, I would’ve saved the money and sold the stuff.”

“I think they’re looking for plausible deniability,” Katya responds, looping her belt back around her waist, and he either doesn’t see the knife tucked along it or doesn’t say anything. “Minor demon?”

“Nothing like what I hear you have under your spell,” he says sharply. “Just a guy whose mother fucked a demon sometime in the seventies and now he has ideas.”

“Crude, nice.” Katya locks the small cabin behind her, which feels like a foolish motion, with her closest neighbor so far away and with such a big dog. “And this minor demon has ideas about a power source?”

Feketer’s watching her closely, too closely, like he placed a hint in his words and is disappointed she missed it. “Same reason we all do,” he says, his voice muted.

She shoves her keys in her pocket, and he’s still watching her, like he’s waiting for a trick. “And you’re here to give me a ride?”

“I told them they sent Katya Godkiller and they wanted me to drive in with you,” he says, shifting. “They think you won’t kill me.”

“They’re probably right,” Katya says back, a smile that’s as sharp as she can make it. “I don’t want my reputation to make things worse.”

He follows her down the porch, his footsteps crunching on gravel just as much as hers. An almost identical truck is parked next to the Organization one, and he beeps it unlocked with a smooth, casual motion.

There’s an instant chill of wards when she climbs in, a chill that she’s only developed through years of practice and training, but she breathes through her nose and gets in anyways. If he wanted to harm her, he could have drawn a gun back at the porch.

If he wanted to harm her, he could’ve ambushed her any time in the last two days. Gotten in while she was asleep. Slashed the brake cord on her truck. Set a crash trap at the edge of her driveway.

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