Possess

wanted her there. He needed her there.
    “I wouldn’t miss it,” she said.
    “I know.”
    Bridget’s smile faded as her eyes drifted to Father Santos. He stood by the window, jotting down notes at a furious pace.
    “Father Santos has just arrived from Rome.” Monsignor’s voice was flat. “He will be working with me for the time being.” He didn’t sound particularly happy.
    “The Vatican is c-concerned with the elevated number of possessions and infestations in the San Francisco area,” Father Santos said, without looking up.
    “Oh,” she said.
    “I have explained to him the nature of your unique, ah, abilities,” Monsignor continued.
    Bridget wondered how that conversation had gone down.
    Monsignor Renault cleared his throat and, with a flick of his head, drew Bridget’s attention to the bed, where an elderly woman lay on her back, covers pulled up to her chin. She looked to be asleep, though her quick, shallow breaths hinted otherwise.
    “Shouldn’t we move her?” Bridget asked.
    “No.”
    Bridget crinkled her brows in confusion; then her eyes grew wide as she realized the truth. “Her?”
    Monsignor nodded. “Yes.”
    Oh, crap. She’d thought it would just be the house, not a living, breathing person.
    “It speaks through her,” Monsignor continued. “But has not yet taken complete control.”
    Bridget began to inch her way toward the door. “I don’t think—”
    “Bridget.” Monsignor’s voice froze her in her tracks. “Bridget, you can do this. I have faith in you.”
    Faith. Great.
    “If she d-doesn’t want to be here . . . ,” Father Santos started.
    Monsignor narrowed his eyes. “She wants to be here, don’t you, Bridget?”
    “Want” was a pretty relative term, but Monsignor’s eyes searched her face, practically pleading for the right answer. She couldn’t disappoint him after all he’d done for her. She swallowed hard and nodded. “Um, yeah. Yeah, I do.”
    “Thank you,” Monsignor said, staring directly at Father Santos. The younger priest looked away and shuffled his feet.
    Monsignor’s face was grim as he looked back at Bridget, but his gray eyes twinkled as if they shared some secret joke at Father Santos’s expense. “Don’t worry. Mrs. Long cannot hurt you, I promise.”
    Bridget gazed at the tiny Mrs. Long—she was ninety pounds maybe, but only after she ate a giant burrito or something—and there was no vapor emanating from her nose or mouth. The old woman’s breath was frigid.
    Bridget bit her lip, attempting to hide the abject terror rising up from her stomach to her throat like bad sushi.
    “What is Rule Number One?” Monsignor Renault asked softly.
    Bridget swore that man could read her mind. “Do not show fear.”
    “Do not show fear.” Monsignor pulled himself up to his full six-foot height, straightening his back and holding his head erect. Despite his age, his shoulders were square and broad, and he looked strong enough to take on a sumo wrestler. He wore his usual long black cassock piped with red, and a purple sash around his waist. A silver ring encircled the middle finger of his left hand, so thick it was more like a single brass knuckle than a piece of jewelry. Monsignor was old-school Catholic, a spectacle of ancient traditions and beliefs that fascinated Bridget and scared the crap out of her at the same time.
    And if he thought Bridget could handle this, then she was damn well going to try.
    “Father Santos,” Monsignor said. “Please prepare the room.”
    Father Santos opened a black bag and removed a purple stole, which he handed to his superior. Monsignor Renault kissed the cross on the back of the stole, then draped it over his neck. Next came two small crystal decanters—one of holy water, one of consecrated oil—then a covered bowl of salt, a tray of Eucharistic wafers, and several thick, white candles. After lighting the candles, the young priest took the salt and carefully sprinkled a stripe across the threshold of the bedroom, then deposited a small pile in each of the four corners.
    “Bridget,” Monsignor murmured without looking at her.
    She jumped. “Yes?”
    “Do you remember what we discussed?”
    Bridget’s mind fumbled for the Rules he had impressed upon her over the last few weeks. The warnings, the training, the explanation of things she wasn’t entirely sure existed. “I guess.”
    “You guess?” Monsignor turned to her slowly and repeated the question. “Do you remember what we