Possess

knows!”
    With a sharp intake of breath, those piercing eyes flew open.
    Alexa heard the voices too.
    “I gotta go.” Bridget grabbed her backpack and ran.

Seventeen
    B RIDGET SPRINTED OUT THE SIDE door of the church, down the granite stairs into the school courtyard. Demons in the church? That was impossible, right? Right?
    She stopped running and gulped deep breaths of crisp, damp air. Alexa had heard the voices too. She was sure of it. How could she and Alexa possibly be connected by those . . .
things ?
    She wanted to confront Alexa, but what was she going to do—march back into choir practice and demand to know why Alexa was hearing disembodied voices in a church? Yeah, that was a one-way ticket to the loony bin.
    No, she needed answers. Now.
    Bridget whirled around and made for the rectory, throwing the door open with such force that the crucifix in the entryway thumped against the wall in protest. She took the stairs two at a time and barged straight into Monsignor’s office.
    “Monsignor, I need to talk to—”
    Father Santos was crouched behind Monsignor’s desk. He shot to his feet as Bridget barreled through the door, his face bright red. “Bridget! W-what are you d-doing here?”
    Bridget arched an eyebrow. “Me?”
    “Yes, well. Yes, of course.” Father Santos stepped out from behind Monsignor’s desk. “I was just, er, retrieving a book. Yes, a book I lent Monsignor Renault.”
    “A book.” There was no book in his hand, just a screwdriver he was trying desperately to shimmy up the sleeve of his jacket.
    Father Santos cocked his head. “Are you all right?”
    “Fine,” she lied.
    “D-did you need to speak with Monsignor? I believe he’s with Ms. Laveau today, down at the doll shop.”
    Why was no one around when she needed them?
    “Perhaps—perhaps I could be of some help?”
    “Oh.” Bridget stopped, taken aback. She hadn’t thought to ask Father Santos, mostly because the last time they had a one-on-one, he had assaulted her. They’d just been having a normal conversation when he’d caught sight of her bracelet and lost his mind. A normal but totally weird conversation about the hand of God and . . . Whoa! That’s where she’d heard about the Watchers first. Father Santos.
    “Who are the Watchers?” she blurted out.
    Father Santos’s beady black eyes grew wide. “Has Monsignor mentioned them to you?”
    “No.”
    “But someone has?”
    “Yes.”
    Father Santos scratched his neck and scrunched up his face. “At the doll shop?”
    Bridget nodded.
    “How much time until your next class?”
    Bridget glanced at the clock on the wall. “Fifteen minutes.”
    Father Santos nodded. “All right, then.”
    He walked straight out the door and across the hall. Not a word, not a gesture requesting her to follow. When he reached his office, he turned back and noticed she wasn’t behind him.
    “Well?” he asked with a sigh. “Do you want to know about the Watchers or not?”
    Bridget cast a glance at Monsignor’s desk. There was no doubt in her mind that Father Santos had been trying to get into the locked drawer, but why? The two priests didn’t like each other, but what could Monsignor possibly have that would reduce Father Santos to breaking and entering?
    He disappeared into his office. He could tell her what she needed to know, but did she really want to lock herself up in his office again? Or should she just wait for Monsignor?
    Nope. This couldn’t wait. She’d have to brave the multiple personalities of Father Santos.
    Bridget heaved her backpack higher on her shoulder and followed the priest into his office.
    “I’m going to tell you a story,” Father Santos said when he was comfortably seated behind his desk.
    Bridget rolled her eyes. Oh, wouldn’t this be fun.
    Father Santos held up a hand. “I know what you’re thinking, but bear with me.”
    “Fine.” Bridget slumped back in her chair and wondered if coming to him had been a mistake.
    Father Santos swung his chair around to an antique cupboard against the wall. Bridget was pretty sure it hadn’t been there during her last visit. He unlocked the cupboard with a tiny key and extracted a box: flat and wooden with a smooth, polished lid and a little brass latch on the side. Father Santos laid the box reverentially on his desk. He whipped out a pair of white cloth gloves, which he pulled on with great care, like a doctor about to go into surgery. Once he was sure the gloves were spotless, he opened