Possess

chewing. “Food. There was a diner back in town, right?”
    “Then you’ll tell me?”
    Bridget sighed. “Then I’ll tell you.”
    Matt nodded and they got into the truck. Bridget noticed that his hand shook as he started the ignition.
    The diner was mostly empty on a Sunday afternoon, just an elderly couple in a booth and two trucker types at the counter. Matt made a beeline for a booth tucked into the far corner.
    The waitress was on them almost immediately, with a big, sunny smile that felt so out of place with their mood that Bridget almost laughed out loud.
    “Can I get you kids something to drink?”
    “Diet 7Up,” Bridget said.
    “We got Sprite.”
    “Whatever.” Then, without even opening the menu, Bridget ordered her favorite. “And a grilled cheese on sourdough with fries.”
    “All righty then,” the waitress said, turning to Matt. “I like a lady who knows what she wants. And you?”
    “Same.” Matt didn’t even look at her, just fidgeted with the fork at his place setting, thumping it up and down on the laminate table.
    Matt waited until the waitress had disappeared behind the counter. “Okay, spill it.”
    “Um . . .” Where the hell did she start? With Monsignor Renault it had been easy; he asked questions, and she answered them. But Matt didn’t know exactly the world of hurt he was about to step into, and for a moment, Bridget was tongue-tied.
    “Yeah?”
    “So here’s the thing,” Bridget said. “This is all going to sound really, really weird. I mean, a level of weird that’s not going to be easy for you to understand, okay?”
    Matt tilted his head to one side. “Weirder than watching you talk to a crazy man like you were reading the thoughts in his head? Weirder than finding your friend murdered in the church last night?”
    The boy made a good point. “Okay, fine. But just remember, you asked.”
    Her story flowed easier than she expected it to: the events at the Fergusons’ house, her first meeting with Monsignor Renault, Mrs. Long, the doll shop, even her brother solving the anagram telling her not to trust the priest. It all came easily, quickly, like she couldn’t wait to get the whole story out into the world.
    Matt listened in silence. When she was done, she glanced up at him, hoping for an encouraging smile or a softness in his eye, something to indicate that he didn’t think she was completely bat shit. But he just continued to stare at the napkin dispenser without saying a word.
    Perfect. He thought she was crazy, delusional, or both. So much for honesty.
    “So Undermeyer,” Matt said hesitantly. “He’s possessed by . . . by . . .”
    “Demons. Yep.” No reason to beat around the bush at this point.
    “And you can communicate with them? Read their minds or something?”
    “Something like that.”
    “Does that make you one of them?”
    Good question. “I have no idea.”
    “How do you do it?”
    Another good question, but at least one she had some semblance of an answer to. “Father Santos—”
    “Was he the chubby little priest from last night?”
    “Heh. Yeah.” Bridget snorted.
    The waitress plopped a pair of grilled cheese sandwiches and Diet Sprites on the table. “Here you go. Can I get you anything else?”
    “No,” Matt and Bridget said in unison.
    The waitress pulled back like she’d been slapped. “Okay then. I’ll just leave you two alone.” Bridget heard her whistle low and long as she walked back to the kitchen.
    “So Father Santos showed me this old manuscript from the Vatican,” Bridget continued. “He said it was the only one of its kind and it tells the story of the Emim and the Watchers.”
    “Sounds like a comic book.”
    “Nerd.”
    “Crazy.” Matt smiled at her. It wasn’t his patented sparkly smile—just a hint of grin around the corners of his mouth—but it gave Bridget a warm, homey feeling inside.
    “I don’t remember all of it, but basically a bunch of angels fell from Heaven to have sex with mortal women and then got banished to Hell. Some of those angels repented, and God granted their half-mortal offspring special powers to control the offspring of the nonrepenting angels. The Watchers and the Emim.”
    Matt’s eyes grew wide as Bridget took a huge bite of her sandwich, trailing a long strand of melted cheese away from her mouth. “Which one are you?”
    “Watcher. I think we’re supposed to be the good guys.”
    “Supposed to be?”
    Bridget dropped her sandwich on her plate. “Look,