I opened my mouth to say something else and then closed it abruptly. I wasn’t doing this with him. Not again. Not today. I sat down on the sofa and crossed my legs. “All right.”

Jonas regarded me warily for a moment, as if I were the one acting strange. But in the end, he didn’t say anything, either. He just fished out a piece and started scribbling on the board, like a more than slightly batty professor.

“Now, as I was saying, visions can be a bit . . . dicey. Agnes often described them as less of a narrative than a kaleidoscope or puzzle, with pieces here and there that, without context, made little sense. Would you agree?”

I shrugged. “I’ve had both kinds. The jumbled ones are the most irritating.”

He nodded. “Yes, so she said. She also told me, however, that having a starting point, some clue as to what she was seeing, often went a long way in helping her sort them out. And once she knew to focus on a particular piece, the others that went with that puzzle often presented themselves.”

“So what puzzle piece do you want me to focus on today?”

“One I’ve been working on for some time now. I’ve been doing some fascinating research into the—”

He stopped and looked at something over my shoulder. I turned my head to see the mage peering around the chalkboard. He looked back and forth between the two of us. “I, er, I was wondering—”

“No, no, we’re past all that,” Jonas said.

The man looked at him for a moment and then decided to focus on me. “Are we having lunch?”

“No.”

“Dinner?”

“No.”

“It’s just . . . I haven’t eaten.”

I just looked at him.

“Could I have my chocolates back?” he asked after a moment.

I silently passed them over. He disappeared back behind the blackboard. Jonas looked at me. “Where were we?”

“I have no idea.”

He thought for a moment. “Oh yes. I was telling you about my research into the old Norse sagas—the mythology of ancient Scandinavia. Have you read them?”

“Uh, no.”

“You’d like them, Cassie.” He waved the hand with the chalk in it. “All sex and violence.”

I frowned. “Why would you think that I’d—”

“And in a real sense, they’re very like visions, in that they give us pieces. Not necessarily the best pieces, you understand, nor in the right order, nor with the right emphasis, but pieces nonetheless. It’s up to us to decode what those pieces mean.”

“Pieces of what?” I asked, trying to figure out where he was going with this.

“Our current situation, I hope. As we recently had demonstrated somewhat . . . vividly, many of the world’s ancient myths have a basis in real events. Take the ouroboros legend, for instance.”

“The ouroboros?” I repeated faintly. Artemis’s protection spell wasn’t my favorite topic of conversation.

“Yes. As with most cultures around the world, the Norse have a legend about a giant snake who grasps its own tail, and in doing so somehow protects the planet. In their case, the snake was Jörmungandr, one of three children of the god Loki, who could shape-shift into a reptile.”

He stepped away from the board so that I could see what he’d been drawing. Only that didn’t help much, because what I saw looked a lot like a lopsided soccer ball with eyes. Or maybe some kind of deformed squid—

“The legend states that eventually Jörmungandr grew so large that he was able to surround the Earth and grasp his own tail. He was believed to be holding the world together, and that when he let go, it would end.”

He added a line across the top of the board and wrote “Loki” in the middle. Then he made three branches coming down from it, like an abbreviated genealogical table. The soccer ball was attached to one of them. He underlined it helpfully.

“That’s Earth?” I asked, just to be clear.

“Yes.”

“And that thing wrapped around it, that’s Jor—whatever?”

“Yes.” He frowned. “Can’t you tell?”

“Not really.”

He leaned over and did something to the drawing. “Is that better?”

I didn’t see any difference. Until I looked closer. And saw that the thing with eyes now also had a tiny, forked tongue.

“Jonas—”

“Now, the interesting thing about the Norse myth,” he told me, “isn’t so much how it differs from the others, but what it adds.” He drew a little line down from the soccer ball and scribbled a name below it. He looked at me expectantly.

“Thor?” I guessed, because Jonas’s handwriting wasn’t any better than his art.

“Yes.”

“God of thunder, big guy with a hammer?”

“Quite. And Jörmungandr’s archenemy. The legend says that in Ragnarok—” He saw my expression. “That is the Old Norse term for the ‘Twilight of the Gods,’ the great war that will decide the fate of the world.”

I nodded, mainly because I wanted him to get to a point already.

“The legends say that Thor will defeat Jörmungandr during Ragnarok, only to die himself shortly thereafter,” he told me. And I guess that was it, because he just stood there, rocking back and forth on his toes and looking pleased.

“I’m kind of still waiting for the interesting part,” I confessed after a few moments.

Jonas blinked at me. “But don’t you see? That is essentially what we have just experienced. The ouroboros spell was defeated, allowing the return of one of the old gods, who died almost immediately afterward.”

“But that was Apollo,” I said, my stomach falling a little more. Because if there was one thing I liked discussing even less than the ouroboros, it was the guy who had defeated it.

Apollo had been the source of the power that came with my office, gifting it to his priestesses at Delphi so that they could help him keep an eye on those treacherous humans. But once the ouroboros spell kicked him out along with the other gods, the power had stayed behind, bound to the line of Pythias who continued their work, only on behalf of the Circle and the humans he had despised.

Or at least it had until I came along. Apollo thought he had it made when a clueless wonder inherited the Pythia position instead of one of the carefully groomed Initiates the Circle kept under its watchful eye. He’d intended to use me to help bring back the bad old days of gods and slaves and nothing in between by helping him get rid of the barrier once and for all.

He’d been less than pleased when I’d declined.

In the end, I’d been the one left standing, although I still wasn’t quite sure how. But I suspected that a heck of a lot of luck had been involved. Now, as far as I was concerned, I could happily go the rest of my life and never hear that name again.

“You know, it’s really quite fascinating,” Jonas said. “But many of the old Norse gods have parallels in the myths of other cultures. From Scandinavia through Ireland, India and even beyond, their names may change, but they are essentially the same entities with the same powers and, in many cases, the same symbolism.”

“Are they?” I asked, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And it was coming; I could feel it.

“Oh yes. Take Thor, for instance. As you say, he is best known as the god of thunder. But would it interest you to know that, when famine threatened, it was Thor to whom the ancient peoples of Scandinavia prayed to send a good harvest—a role traditionally allocated to a sun god? Or that sun gods the world over have customarily been depicted holding axes—which look a great deal like Thor’s famous hammer? In fact, some scholars have suggested that they were the prototypes for it.”

“But what does that have to do with—”

“And that, according to legend, of the four horses that drew Apollo’s chariot, one was named Lightning and another Thunder? Or that Apollo was said to have used lightning and thunder—the elements, not the horses—to drive away marauding Gauls who threatened his sanctuary at Delphi?”

“Um, okay, but—”

“The ancient Gauls also considered the god of thunder and the sun god to be one,” Jonas said, really getting into it now. “Images have been found in France of a god resting one hand on a wheel, the symbol for the sun, and holding a flash of lightning in the other. And the Slavonian god of thunder, Perun, was honored with an oak-log fire.”

“Oak?”

“In Greece, oak was the wood dedicated to the sun god.”

I stared at the chalkboard, and the queasy feeling doubled. I swallowed. “So . . . so what you’re trying to say is that—”

“And then there’s the Hindu god Indra. He had early aspects of a sun god, riding in a golden chariot across the heavens to bring the day. But he is more often known as the god of thunder, wielding the celestial weapon Vajra—a lightning bolt.”

“Jonas—”

“And then there’s the fact that Thor’s home was said to be in Jotunheim, in the east, connecting him again to the rising—”

“Jonas!” That was Pritkin.

I looked up at the sound of his voice to see him standing in the doorway to the foyer, arms crossed and green eyes narrowed. He looked pretty pale, for some reason, and instead of his usual ramrod posture, he was leaning against the wall. But he was alive and looking pissed off and I’d never been so happy to see him.

“Hm? Yes?” Jonas blinked at him.

“Are you trying to tell us that Thor and Apollo are two names for the same being?”

“Well, yes,” Jonas said, as if that went without saying. “And once I realized that, well, naturally I began to wonder. . . .”

He and Pritkin stared at the board for a long minute. “Wonder what?” I finally blurted out.

Jonas looked at me. “Well, if we aren’t fighting Ragnarok right now, of course.”