Possess

beautiful.”
    Bridget’s eye went to the plum-colored tie around his neck that almost perfectly matched her dress. She was about to ask how he knew, but the answer hit her before the words escaped her mouth.
    “Hector?”
    Matt grinned.
    “That traitor.”
    “I can be quite charming. When I need to.”
    They stood there on the landing and smiled at each other while her mom snapped random pictures behind them. Bridget tried to reconcile this funky version of Matt with the varsity jacket clad, overly protective, annoyingly perfect guy she knew.
    “Come on, you two,” her mom said, patience gone. “Stand together so I can get a good photo.”
    Bridget swallowed hard as Matt slid in next to her. He smelled really good, sort of musky and orange, and she couldn’t help but close her eyes and take a deep whiff of it, letting the scent fill her nostrils. She wished she’d put perfume on. Or, um, had perfume to put on.
    With her eyes still closed, Bridget felt Matt slip a tentative hand around her waist. Her eyes flew open, and Matt held his breath, waiting—she guessed—for a quick elbow in the ribs.
    “Smile!” Bridget’s mom said, and snapped off a half dozen photos.
    After a second or two with no violent reaction, Matt’s grip on her waist strengthened, and he pulled her into his body while her mom continued to snap away.
    Bridget’s heart raced, and she fought the urge to lean into him. What the hell was wrong with her?
    “Ew,” Sammy said, and wrinkled his nose.
    “Go to your room, Sammy,” her mom said. Instead he plopped down on the floor with a pencil and a folded piece of paper and started working on one of his puzzles.
    “We should go,” Matt said, heading for the door.
    Panic set in. She was going to a dance, a lame-ass school dance. And other than Matt, she wasn’t going to know anyone there.
    “Bridget,” he said when she hadn’t moved an inch. “Are you ready?”
    “Uh, yeah,” Bridget pulled a sweater from the coat rack. Oh, dear God, I’m really going to do this? “I guess.”
    “Home by midnight,” her mom said from the door as Bridget picked her way down the stairs in her ridiculous silver heels.
    Bridget was just stepping into Matt’s truck when Sammy came tearing down the stairs after her.
    “I solved it, Bridge. I solved it.”
    Bridget was confused. “Solved what, Sammy?”
    Sammy waved the piece of paper he’d been fiddling with upstairs. “Your puzzle. The one you left me in the bathroom.”
    Bridget plucked the paper from his outstretched hand. She immediately recognized Father Santos’s handwriting and the nonsensical demonic phrases. “Oh, no.”
    “Sammy, get inside,” their mom called from the doorway. “Now!”
    Sammy did a little pirouette, he was so pleased with himself, then pranced up the stairs.
    “Everything okay?” Matt asked as he put the truck in gear.
    “Yeah, totally,” Bridget lied. “Sorry about that.”
    “It’s okay. I like that little dude.” Matt smiled and backed out of the driveway. As they drove away, Bridget glanced down at the paper of anagrams still clasped in her hand. At the very bottom, in a deliberate all-caps scrawl, was Sammy’s solution:
    DON’T TRUST THE PRIEST.

Twenty
    W HATEVER VAGUE HOPE B RIDGET HAD of concentrating on the St. Michael’s Winter Formal disappeared in an instant. Don’t trust the priest. Really? She went to a bloody Catholic school and was literally surrounded by priests every moment of every day. How in the hell was she supposed to know which one not to trust?
    Rule Number Five: They lie. They lie. The demons at the doll shop were attempting to confuse her, fill her with questions and distrust. According to Monsignor Renault, that’s what they did. You had to be strong. You had to ignore them.
    “You okay?” Matt asked, glancing in her direction.
    “Fine, yeah.” Bridget shoved the scribbled bit of notepaper into her clutch. Perfectly totally fine except for the fact that I don’t want to be here and I hate my life. Oh, wait . . .
    “You seem kind of quiet.”
    Bridget snorted. “How long have you known me?”
    “All right, calm down.” Matt slowed for a light and flashed his winning, all-American smile. “That temper of yours is something else. I don’t know whether I want to high-five you or slip you a Xanax.”
    Bridget pursed her lips. “Thanks.”
    “I just thought you might be nervous. About the dance.”
    What was she, twelve? Bridget was about to set him straight when