I sat up, abruptly enough to send the coverlet that had been slung over me sliding to the floor. It wasn’t one of the blue ones that matched my room, because this wasn’t my room. The sun pouring in through the old, sashed window was striping the fallen eider down, the planks of a worn wooden floor, and a washstand, its blue and white pitcher gleaming cheerfully in what looked like morning light. The rest of the room matched the highlighted areas: an old-fashioned wardrobe; an equally old-fashioned, fourposter bed; a weird looking copper bathtub. And a faded painting of droopy tulips on the wall, their once vibrant hues now a washed out mauve.

I stared at them for a moment, then slowly lay back against the large bolster behind me. I was in Edwardian London, at the court of a previous Pythia named Gertie, who had been clandestinely training me. Clandestinely because Pythias weren’t supposed to meet, in case one let something slip about her era, and thus screwed up time. And training because I desperately needed it, and the only person who can really train a Pythia is another one.

What I didn’t know was what I was doing here, and there was only one way to find out.

Yet I stayed where I was for a moment, clutching a blanket, and listening to my heart pound. I’d had a lot of practice at not freaking out these past six months, to the point that you’d think I’d be better at it. You would be wrong.

Or maybe freaking out was the appropriate response here. Even for me, it wasn’t every day that I talked to a god, or to a being who thought he was one. And who kind of had the preponderance of evidence on his side.

The supernatural community was at war against creatures out of legend, the kind that had been memorable enough to hold their own even in the modern mental landscape: Apollo, the shining, charming sun god; Ares, the cruel, overwhelming personification of war; Artemis, the brilliant huntress, although the jury was still out as to which side she was on. And now… what? Zeus?

Had I really just spoken to the All-Father, to use his Scandinavian alias? The gods were known by a hundred different names, but the archetypes were the same, no matter where in the world their memories persisted. Zeus/Odin was always a crafty old man who knew more than he should, and who often used others to fight his battles for him. I knew that because I’d been brushing up on my mythology, since it was suddenly less about stories in children’s books and more about an existential threat to mankind.

I hadn’t enjoyed it.