Possess

them.
    She shepherded the boys through the door. “Get out. Get out of this house.”
    “How are you here?”
    “We only obey the Master.”
    “Her words burn like the white flame.”
    Bridget planted her feet on the floor and clenched her fist. “Get out of here!”
    The house moaned. The lights in the hallway flickered, and the voices in the walls let out a soul-wrenching wail.
    Then all was still.

Ten
    B RIDGET PAUSED. F ATHER S ANTOS FURIOUSLY scribbled notes, flipping new pages with mechanical precision. He seemed unaware that she’d stopped talking.
    “And how did Monsignor Renault learn of the incident?” he asked without looking up.
    “Can’t you ask Monsignor?”
    Father Santos still didn’t look at her. “How did he find out?”
    Bridget sighed. “Mrs. Ferguson called Monsignor and told him the whole story.”
    He glanced in her direction. “I take it they know each other?”
    Bridget shrugged. “They’re in the parish.”
    “Interesting. And Monsignor never mentioned anything about the Watchers or divine grace?”
    Was he serious? “Pretty sure I’d’ve remembered that.”
    Father Santos stopped writing and looked at her. “Are you sure?”
    Bridget returned his stare. “Someone tells me I’ve been touched by Jesus, I remember.”
    “Not Jesus,” he said in all seriousness. “The hand of God.”
    Bridget was getting tired of all the Bible talk. “Whatever.”
    “No, not whatever. There is a grave difference.” Father Santos bounced to his feet and scurried over to a pile of boxes in the middle of the room. He shifted the top two onto another pile, then drew a set of rosary beads out of his pocket. In a swift, clean motion he made the sign of the cross over the box, then used a sharp corner of the metal crucifix to break the seal on the packing tape, running it down the length of the box.
    Well, that’s something you don’t see every day.
    As he slipped the rosary back into his pocket, he caught Bridget’s eye.
    “Can’t seem to find any of my supplies,” he said, the color rising ever so slightly in his brown face. “You know, any port in a storm and all that.”
    Bridget nodded and hoped her face didn’t reflect what her brain was thinking, namely that Father Santos was a whackadoo.
    After a few moments digging through the sacrilegiously opened box, Father Santos pulled out a large volume, thick as a dictionary and encased in a crinkly plastic cover. He resumed his seat and placed the book carefully on the desk in front of him. As he flipped open the cover, the stench of damp newspaper wafted upward.
    “You are blessed, Bridget Liu,” Father Santos said as he carefully turned the worn, fragile pages.
    That was hardly what she would call it.
    “You are blessed with an exceedingly rare gift.”
    “So I’ve heard,” she said under her breath.
    “A divine gift,” he continued. “The touch of the hand of God.”
    Bridget fought back a laugh. “Um, sure.”
    Father Santos cocked his head. “You don’t believe me.”
    “Look, no offense, but that’s not possible.”
    “According to the Bible, it’s quite possible.”
    “But—” How exactly was she supposed to argue with that? The old “It’s in the Bible” was about as irrefutable as her mom’s “Because I said so, that’s why.” “Look, even if that’s true, it wouldn’t happen to me.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because God and I aren’t exactly on the best of terms.” Bridget decided not to mention that she’d told God to piss off after her dad’s murder. “If he was making a gift list, I’d be at the bottom. Trust me.”
    Father Santos smiled. “I think you underestimate yourself.”
    I think you’re out of your freaking mind.
    Father Santos found the page he was looking for and swung the book around for her to see. It was an etching of angels exposed to an enormous light, the beams drawn as lightning bolts coming from a central point. Most of the angels looked rapturous, their heads thrown back in ecstasy, arms reaching up to the unseen source of light. But some cowered, clamoring over one another in an attempt to flee the rays, their faces twisted in pain, rage, and fear.
    “The divine grace of God,” Father Santos said, his voice lower now, reverential. “Signified by the hand of God.”
    “You mean it’s not really his hand?”
    Father Santos sighed. “God doesn’t have a hand, Bridget. Or a body. What are they teaching you in Catholic school?”
    Bridget narrowed her eyes.