Possess

what?”
    “Help you deal with . . . everything.”
    “I don’t need your help.”
    He motioned to the envelope. “Please?”
    “Fine.” Why was she humoring him? Bridget flipped the envelope open and pulled out a laminated prayer card. One side had the image of a sword in each of its four corners, with the Latin text of the Prayer of St. Michael, which every St. Michael’s Prep freshman was forced to memorize. The back had a weird picture of an angel, Michael, sword in hand on a rocky island, doing battle with a dragon. Beneath, the words “ Vade Retro Satana” were printed in a strange, medieval-
looking font.
    “St. Michael and the serpent in the battle for Heaven.”
    “I know what it is,” Bridget snapped. “Catholic school, remember?”
    “Right.” Father Santos’s tone was lighter than it had been since she arrived. “It’s . . . it’s a talisman of sorts. It might help.”
    Bridget tossed the envelope into her backpack. “If you say so.” Like a prayer card was going to help her through the nightmare that was her life.
    “Just promise me you’ll keep it, okay? Maybe say the words to yourself once in a while?”
    The text on the card jumped into her head. Vade retro satana . Her fingertips began to tingle. Bridget shook it off. “I’m going to be late for class.”
    Father Santos planted his hand against the front door. “Promise you’ll keep it? Please?”
    Why did he have such a burr up his butt about this? “Fine.”
    “And the bracelet.”
    Bridget took a step away from him. “What about it?”
    “You wear it all the time?”
    “Yep.”
    “Good. Promise you won’t take it off.”
    “Fine, whatever.” Just let me out of here.
    Father Santos opened the rectory door for her and stepped aside. “Good. Good. That’s good enough for now.”

Eleven
    B RIDGET HURRIED DOWN THE STEPS of the rectory. What just happened? Father Santos’s split personalities spooked her. One minute he’s a stuttering clown, the next a violent psychopath. And then he gave her a gift? Maybe he was off his meds or something.
    Almost against her will, the Latin words from the prayer card popped into her head. Vade retro satana . Her fingertips tingled again, just a teeny bit, like when you come into a warm room from the bitter cold. She felt lightheaded, giddy, kind of like she’d felt when she laid her hands on Mrs. Long.
    Vade retro satana . The sound of the warning bell drifted across the courtyard, but Bridget barely registered it.
    Vade retro satana . Why couldn’t she get those words out of her head? It was seriously annoying. Like a Lady Gaga song. What did it mean?
    Crap. Latin was her worst subject. “ Vade” from the verb “ vadere ,” to go? Maybe.
    Students brushed passed her as they scurried to class, but Bridget didn’t care if she was late to homeroom.
    Vade retro satana. She couldn’t stop saying it, repeating it in her mind. Each time the vibrations in her hands got stronger, spreading up through her arms. The charm on her bracelet vibrated violently against her wrist as if it was absorbing the energy that raced through her body.
    She froze and held her arm up before her face. The charm hung there innocently enough, twisting back and forth on its clasp. “Vade retro satana,” Bridget said out loud. The charm leaped to life and flapped back and forth several times against her wrist.
    The words were linked to her charm bracelet? Kill me.
    Okay. Her Latin wasn’t that bad. She could do this. Vade . Go. Go where? Retro : That was easy. Back or backward. Go backward.
    Go backward satana.
    Go back satana.
    Step back satana.
    Step back, Satan.
    Step back, Satan. Bridget’s stomach sank. No wonder the phrase had triggered that humming sensation in her body. It was practically an exorcist’s mantra. She didn’t care what Monsignor or Father Santos said, there was definitely something wrong, something unnatural about the way she could communicate with evil. Worse, the way she enjoyed it. The giddy tingling vanished as a new, horrifying thought flooded her mind.
    She liked the power she had over the demons.
    This was so not good.
    The hallway was clear as Bridget rounded the corner next to her locker. The last bell must have rung, but she never even heard it. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the combination lock.
    “Come on, Bridge,” she said out loud. “Get a grip.”
    “Who are you talking to?”
    Bridget screamed and spun around to find the slight figure of Peter Kim