Page 83 of Katya and the Young God

The front door opens, and Stepan barks again, but...

But it’s a friendly bark.

“Oh, it’s just his fucking dog,” a voice says, and it’s almost familiar.

“A dog couldn’t open up the door.” Clear and somewhat disgusted, is Feketer’s voice.

There’s an oft familiar thump, and it’s clear that Stepan is even wagging his tail at them.

“Jesus Christ,” the other voice mutters, and it sounds like he’s petting Stepan. “I thought you said the other human had the dog.”

Pieter’s lips curve up into a small smile, still leaning against her.

From outside, there’s a thump, like he’s overturning the couch cushions. “She did. Dogs roam. I thought your proximity alarms were better than to get tripped by a fucking dog.”

Pieter’s eyebrow raises, ever so slightly, at that, and Katya gives him a smug smirk. His securities are not all that great, and even relying on them that much had been foolish.

They’re close, they’re so close, and the proximity makes Katya’s heart jump, sudden, a lump in her throat. Her eyes flicker away, but they’re so near there’s nowhere else to look but his gray eyes.

“They’re what tripped when the human came here, oh Jesus.” There’s the sound of opening the fridge, which hasn’t been touched in five weeks and smells, then it closing quickly. “Yeah, no.”

“You seriously dragged me all this way to look at a dog.” Feketer’s voice dances around them, in the small closet, and Katya can’t believe she ever thought he was anything but sinister. “A dog that can apparently open doors. Search this place.”

The door slams, like he just stalked out, but there’s still one set of footsteps, with the patter of Stepan keeping up with him, as he moves through the cabin, opening cabinets in the kitchen, making quite a clutter.

Pieter’s hand on her elbow tightens briefly, before gentling. He leans against her a bit more, and his breath hitches a bit.

As slow as she can, she presses her hand up against the wound bandage, and he relaxes against her touch.

The searcher kicks open the door to the bedroom, and she tenses, but he runs his hand down her arm, his fingers light against her flannel shirt, a warning to stay calm. To trust him.

She nods, a bare inclination of her head against his, her heart in her throat.

Through the small crack, she can see the searcher, but his face is masked with a scarf, quick and dirty, like they didn’t expect to have to do this search on a short notice.

There’s a gun strapped to his body, a dull plastic gun, the type that people who want to feel like gangsters carry. He keeps a hand on the rifle, like he’s expecting to draw it, and his finger twitches around the trigger in a way that no proper soldier would actually do.

True to his nature, Stepan trots next to him, leaning against him and smiling, tongue lolling out, and if he wasn’t the thing actively maintaining a cover for them Katya would burst out and drag the dog away from anyone with such improper trigger discipline.

He kicks open the closet door but despite the line of light illuminating their hiding place, doesn’t see them. His eyes scan right over them, but whatever magic Pieter has in place shields them well, and within the space of a breath he moves on, kicking over pillows on the bed.

Katya leans against him, sagging, and he presses his cheek to the top of her head. It’s a familiar, affectionate motion, one that she should definitely protest, should definitely shake off, but...

But right now, it’s okay. She lets herself lean against him in the small space, listening to the sound of footsteps and the occasional muffled curse, and lets herself be held.

A short few minutes later, the searcher opens the front door, tells Stepan to stay, then closes it behind him.

They remain there for a few more moments, as the sound wanes, before Pieter slowly unwinds, pulling away from her.

She straightens, setting her spine back in place. “Nifty hiding nook,” she says, and her voice doesn’t waver as much as she thought it would. “Work only for you?”

“Haven’t had to use it yet,” he responds, stepping sideways out of it, pressing his hand against the wound. “Didn’t exactly make it for two.”

“I gathered.” Katya runs a hand through her hair, combing it in a vain attempt to un-rumple it. “Did you intentionally find the friendliest dog ever?”

As if knowing he’s being mentioned, Stepan dashes into the room with them, tongue lolling out, and Katya squats down next to him to give him pets, because it’s a hell of a lot easier to give the dog affection than to stop her legs from shaking.

“Not intentionally, but it’s a good perk,” he says, glancing at the mess the searcher left, with the couch cushions upturned and the cabinets hanging open, Tupperware everywhere, before he ducks inside one of the closets, pulling out a large winter jacket, holding it out to her. “We need to leave, and soon.”

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