Page 5 of Katya and the Young God

“When I can manage it, yes.” Katya doesn’t shift, doesn’t fidget, and it’s all because of her impeccable control, which she clings to as if it would save her. “Most of my career with the Organization was in Los Angeles.”

He blinks at her through the rearview window, putting things together, reaching his own conclusions.

“Well, this is prolly the prettiest state in the union,” Ollo chimes in, cheerful as can be. “There’s nothing more beautiful than the Rockies at sunset.”

“Are you Katya Godkiller?” Feketer asks, his voice smooth. Detached.

Miri had warned Katya, jokingly, of the nickname, but it stings, both in the dishonesty of it and in the reminder of everything it suggests. But the official story is that Katya stabbed the twin, brought down their reign of terror, for the Organization is far too prideful to admit it was someone else to do so.

“I had a part in that,” she simply responds, in the tried and true way of deflecting she’s honed from years on the job.

His eyes match hers in the rearview mirror, and she doesn’t look away. “And they’re sending you here.”

It’s not a question, it’s not a judgment, and it’s not an attack.

It feels like one, though.

Instead she smiles, a careful, practiced smile, one that’s more professional than friendly, more cutting than reassuring. “They saw a need.”

“That’s an interesting choice.” He breaks the eye contact first, shuttering his gaze to outside the car, to the bright green grass springing up between the houses and the apartments.

She commands her back to unwind, to settle more into the seat of the car. “How apprised are you on the situation with the mountain?”

She’s studied enough body language to know how deeply, truly uncomfortable Feketer is, from the hunching of his shoulders to the shift against the seatbelt. “Enough to know that they’re messing with something high above my pay grade,” he blurts out, like it’s embarrassing. “If they brought in you, then...”

Brotherly, Ollo takes his hand off the steering wheel and grips his friend’s shoulder, still watching the road. “The whole mess in Los Angeles the last few weeks has been rough on us,” he says, and his voice is overbearingly kind.

“They say you had a part in that, as well?” Feketer asks, getting back his composure like it’s something he is able to grasp and throw on himself.

That’s putting it mildly, but she’s not sure how much of the non-official story has leaked back here. “The Succubi at the center charmed me,” she says, pitching her voice to be soothing, as the cities flow into suburbs with large trees. “I was present for it.”

“Can’t believe a Succubi went crazy like that,” Ollo says, and the hairs on the back of her neck rise at his dismissive tone. “Thought they were placid creatures.”

Feketer hears it as well, and a small fission of discomfort crosses his face.

But Katya can’t find a response that his man deserves, so instead she leans her head against the window, staring out at all the green.

* * *

They dropoff the Pixie in a boilerplate small suburb, with old stone buildings and cheerful parks. He doesn’t say goodbye to Katya, just a brisk nod with a grim look on his face, before he disappears into an apartment next to an old library.

Suburbs turn to fields, turn to rolling hills, then—abruptly—turn to forests. Trees, taller than she’s ever seen, skyrocket to the heavens, shading the road and blocking out the sun.

The car chugs, up the mountain on twisting roads, the switchbacks closer to the boulder-strewn mountains of Afghanistan than anything she’s seen in California.

They pass small towns, barely more than a cluster of buildings with two thoroughfares, with cabins and houses visible in small glimpses between the trees.

It’s rural, far more rural than she would ever consider for herself, and the fact that they’re still going makes bile rise up in the back of her throat.

After a long, silent period, where the only noise is the rough rumble of the car and the occasional zoom of another car passing them, Ollo coughs, clearing his throat.

“You’re not going to be alone out here, but there’s not going to be much backup,” he says, finally turning off the main highway, and down a pass cut severely into the side of the mountain. “It’s not going to be the most secure location.”

She could’ve guessed that based on the maps she saw online, but is much more curious on what he would consider secure.

“The...thing. Under the mountain. It’s...different,” he says, and, finally, they’re getting somewhere. She straightens. “We don’t...we don’t know what it is. But it’s attracted some...less-than-scrupulous people.”

“Power usually does,” she says, and the forest and the mountain all fade away in her focus. “They’ve told me very little.”

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