“All those books,” Grace says, shaking her head. “Thank goodness I got most of the binders done, but all those resources …”

She trails off, probably mourning the lost library. Maybe that’s her coping mechanism, focusing on that tangible loss instead of the reality of how close we came to dying just now.

Gretchen, on the other hand, isn’t bothering to cope. Even from several feet away, in the eerie glow of the fire, I can see the fury on her face.

I glance from her to the burning shell of the loft in disbelief. What just happened? Can that have been an accident? What about that phone call?

The chill of the frigid bay finally penetrates my fear-and adrenaline-flooded body. My muscles start spasming. I can ask questions later. If we don’t get out soon, we’ll go hypothermic. And after everything that’s happened I don’t exactly relish the idea of a trip to the emergency room to top it off.

“We need to get out of the water,” I say, my jaw tightening against the chill. When neither of them moves, I add, “Now!”

Startled from their thoughts—Grace from mourning the loss of all those books, Gretchen from her boiling anger at our near deaths—they turn toward shore and start paddling.

With shivering limbs, I swim after them. The activity works the fear out of my system and clears my mind. I push aside all the thoughts fighting to consume me until there is only one remaining: the feeling of dread I had up in the loft. Was that a freak coincidence? Or was it a premonition? And if it was, what good is a warning like that if it petrifies me in place?

San Francisco has a reputation for winterlike temperatures even in the summertime. Never have I been as thoroughly frozen to the core as I feel right now. Standing on the pier with my borrowed clothes clinging to me, soaked with icy water, I can’t stop the wave after wave of shivering chills that sweep over me.

My teeth are chattering as I say, “We need to get warm.”

“We need to get out of here,” Grace says, shaking just as hard as I am. “Someone will have called the fire department. And it’s not like we can really explain....”

She waves her hand in a circle and, as vague as the gesture is, I understand precisely what she means. From what Gretchen has said, very little of her life is legitimately documented. She doesn’t want anyone poking around, asking questions about the loft and who lives—lived—there, let alone the burning arsenal inside.

And none of us needs anyone asking about the triplets who nearly got blown up. Parents would be called, which would lead to even more questions. The kind I’m not prepared to answer yet.

“I agree,” I say. “My car is right over—”

“I don’t think the fire has reached the garage yet,” Gretchen says.

She’s looking at the building that was, until an explosion tore apart the upper level ten minutes ago, her home. Like she wants to go inside.

“You’re not serious,” I say. “You can’t go in there.”

Fine, so the flames are still in the upper level at the far end of the building. The smoke is pouring out from every opening, every crack. And where there’s smoke …

Gretchen spears me with a serious look. “I need that car,” she says. “I need what’s inside that car.”

Then, before I can argue the point—by telling her that it’s complete lunacy to run into a burning building that just blew up—she sprints toward a side door that presumably leads into the garage.

She’s insane. We’ve already almost died tonight—twice—and now she’s racing back into danger.

Grace starts to go after her, but I grab her, stopping her from following our sister into the inferno. One sister with a death wish is enough.

“Let me go!” she shouts, trying to twist out of my grasp. “We can’t let her go in alone!”

I understand the sentiment, but I hold Grace tighter. She’s not thinking clearly right now. I don’t want to risk losing her too.

“Do I really have to explain why rushing into a burning building is a bad idea?”

“Greer!” Grace gives up her struggle and stands, limp, staring at the open door through which Gretchen disappeared. “What if she—?”

“She won’t,” I insist, with more conviction—and more faith—than I knew I had. I take a deep breath, letting my faith in Gretchen straighten my spine. “She is strong and tough and capable in more ways than we can imagine. She’ll be fine.”

As I say the words, I realize they’re true. And I believe them.

Like Grace and me, Gretchen has had to face unimaginable changes in the last two weeks. She discovered she’s a triplet—which Grace and I just discovered as well, along with the fact that we’re descendants of Medusa, destined to hunt monsters and chase them out of our world. She learned that her mentor, who is also one of our immortal ancestral aunts, the Gorgon Euryale, has been taken as a prisoner the gods only know where—literally. And now, twice in one night, someone has tried to kill Gretchen. She’s handled all of these changes with dignity and courage. I don’t believe there is anything she can’t face.

Of course, a burning building isn’t a mythological monster, and maybe this is one challenge she isn’t trained for. A trickle of fear slides down my spine.

Just as I begin to doubt my conviction, Gretchen’s black Mustang bursts through the end wall of the building in an explosion of wood and plaster, squealing backward onto the blacktop. She cuts a tight turn and shifts into forward, skidding to a stop right next to my silver Porsche.