“You said that Horus healed Jillian. And a lot of other people?”
Winter in Binghamton had finally hit.
Over the last few months, a Dutch Patreon patron of mine, and a long-time follower, worked on a bit of a story set in Hell’s Kitchen Sink, set in Binghamton, around the same time that Actus Deus is happening! I helped him out with some editing and making sure it fit the physics and realities of Hell’s Kitchen Sink! Check it out on his Deviantart, https://www.deviantart.com/zincwing, or read it right below the ‘read more’ link! It’s a thrilling thing to have someone interested enough to want to write stories in something I’ve done! I sincerely hope you enjoy.
“You’re not serious,” said Horace, eyes widening slightly. “Please tell me that the Order of Set wasn’t on the Nazi’s side.”
“I’m glad you made up your mind,” said Athena, a warm smile on her face. “I had been concerned. It’s been a somewhat trying year. For both of us, I imagine.” Her smile faded, and her eyes went down. “I’m sorry about your friends. About Alfred, and about Polly. Betrayal hurts, and there are few betrayals greater than a hero’s death.”
“Did you die?” said Bastet, the goddess’ green eyes bright and wide as she listened, rapt with attention, although apparently not much critical thought.
“You cocky son of a bitch,” I said, glaring at Pale Male. He stood perched in the tree, watching me as he dipped his head down into the body of the pigeon he’d just taken down. I perched in the tree opposite him, my feathers ruffled. “You stand there, eating one of my fuckin’ buddies in front of me. You have some fucking nerve.”
It was, I thought, a truly beautiful evening. The sun stood on the horizon, still casting down enough golden light for us to see. The campground was empty of people, nobody interested in camping here at the moment. Rutted tracks were visible in the ground, where people had driven up to the campsite. Dark patches where people had put up their tents. Evidence that this had been a popular place, once. Now, it was empty and quiet.
It was a gloriously bright, sunny day in Nineveh. The sky had just enough clouds in it to provide a bit of shade and keep the temperature cool. This far south and west of Lake Ontario, the snow and winter had not been as rough, the city shielded by the Catskills. The flowers had begun to blossom, and a riot of color adorned the planters, matched in brilliance if not organization by the wildflowers growing by the lakeside, on the other side of the road.