Possess

“Normal.”
    “Normal? Oh, Bridget.” Monsignor fell silent. He pressed his lips together until their pink line disappeared into a threaded white blur. He seemed at a loss. “I thought you were enjoying our sessions,” he said at last. “Learning the Rules. I thought you enjoyed the banishment.”
    Bridget slumped back in her chair. That was the problem. She did enjoy the banishment. Too much. The sensations, the power—what did that make her? Some kind of weirdo that got off on talking to demons? There were cults for that kind of crazy.
    “I guess,” she muttered.
    Monsignor stood up and moved to the corner of his desk nearest her. “Bridget, I don’t want to force you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, but I feel a sense of responsibility toward you. If I hadn’t cancelled my appointment with your father to consult on the Undermeyer case that day, I would have been there, might have prevented the tragedy.” He reached out and placed a firm hand on her shoulder. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, but his gray eyes were soft. “I hold myself personally responsible.”
    So many apologies. She knew Monsignor really meant it too. He’d been so patient with her over the last few weeks, trying to help her understand what she was, what she could do. But there were only so many times she could say “It’s not your fault” before the words lost their meaning.
    Bridget sighed. “It’s not your fault.”
    “Yes.” Monsignor patted her shoulder. “But I intend to keep a watchful eye on you, guide you in this new world you’ve discovered. Together, we can be a force against the Enemy.”
    Woo hoo.
    Monsignor bent his face down close to hers. “I believe
in you, Bridget. I believe you can do wondrous things.” Monsignor returned to his chair. “Now, let us discuss Mrs. Long.”
    Bridget dropped her eyes to her lap. “Okay.”
    “There were three presences, correct?”
    Bridget paused. Three demons that had told her their names, but right at the end, the last one who gave her a warning had seemed . . . different? New? How could she tell that it wasn’t part of the others? These things didn’t exactly wear name tags. And yet . . .
    “Bridget?”
    “Sorry,” she said with a start. “Yeah, three demons.”
    “And they said they were servants of Amaymon?”
    The names were fuzzy. “That sounds right.”
    Monsignor leaned forward over his desk. “And you sensed this demon, you felt Amaymon’s presence?”
    “It was there but, um, not.” Bridget looked up at the ceiling, trying to recall her encounter with the demon. “Like it was watching what was happening from the end of a long tunnel or something. But it sensed me, knew I was there. It seemed really surprised. They all did. I don’t get it.”
    Monsignor twirled his silver ring around the third finger of his left hand. “Perhaps they could sense your power.”
    “I don’t know. It seemed like they remembered me somehow.”
    “Be careful, Bridget,” Monsignor said. “You cannot always trust your instinct with these entities. What is Rule Number Five?”
    “They lie.”
    “Exactly. It is their primary objective to sow doubt and strife among their adversaries. You must remember that.”
    “Okay.” Monsignor was probably right. After all, he’d been doing exorcisms for, like, a hundred years or something.
    Monsignor leaned back in his chair. “One more thing. I want to talk to you about Father Santos.”
    “Yeah?”
    “By now you’ve discovered that he is the new history teacher at St. Michael’s.”
    “Yeah.”
    “And I’m guessing he has approached you? Asked to meet with you?”
    Bridget nodded. “Yeah!” How did he know?
    Monsignor slapped his hand against the desk. “Exactly as I suspected. When?”
    “Tomorrow morning. Monsignor Renault, who is he?”
    “Father Santos? A Vatican pawn. On the surface, they are concerned that I’m not capable of dealing with the increased number of possessions. Though to be frank, I believe word of you and your abilities has reached Rome.”
    “Rome?” Bridget was horrified. “They sent someone to spy on me?”
    “In a word, yes.” Monsignor ran a hand over his mostly bald head. “Bridget, I would like you to keep your meeting with Father Santos.”
    Meeting the new Vatican spy was the last thing she wanted to do. “Um . . .”
    “And tell me everything he says. Can you do that?”
    “Do I have to?”
    “It could prove helpful.”
    Ugh.