Possess

he was.
    Father Santos popped up off the desk. “Ah ha! Here it is. Listen. ‘Le sorcier peut gagner la dominance au-dessus de Beleth seulement à condition qu’il reste dans le cercle du—’ ”
    “Um, Father Santos?” Bridget interrupted.
    “Wait,” he said turning the page. “This gets really interesting.”
    “Father Santos, we don’t speak French.”
    “French?” He examined the book to see if there was something wrong about it, then laughed nervously. “Ah, yes, yes, of course. So sorry. Let me translate.”
    “Is this guy for real?” Matt muttered.
    Bridget poked him in the chest. “I would like to remind you that trusting him was your idea.”
    “Thanks.”
    Father Santos cleared his throat. “The conjuror may summon Beleth—that’s another of the kings of Hell,” he interposed by way of explanation, “by the ritual of blood. This ritual must take place on holy ground that has been rededicated to the Master—that would be Satan—with a relic of the old regime—those would be the archangels.”
    Something stirred in Bridget’s mind. A relic of an archangel, holy ground that didn’t exactly feel holy.
    “The conjuror may hold dominance over Beleth only as long as he remains with the ring of silver affixed to the third finger of his left hand.”
    Bridget’s fingernails dug into the soft flesh of her palm. “A silver ring?” The words almost choked her.
    Father Santos lowered the book. He was no longer smiling. “Yes, a silver ring.”
    “Like the one Monsignor wears.”
    “Exactly like that.”
    A priest wielding a sword. The hungry way Monsignor had questioned her about Amaymon. His avoidance of all Bridget’s questions. He’d even been scheduled to meet with her father on the day of his death.
    Matt’s hand was around her waist before Bridget even realized she’d lost her balance. “Bridge, are you okay?”
    “I’m so sorry, Bridget,” Father Santos said. His voice was calm, and he spoke slowly, as if she were a child. “I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure.”
    “But he taught me. He taught me what I was, how to do whatever it is I do.”
    Matt eased her into a chair and crouched down next to her while he questioned Father Santos. “Are you saying that Monsignor Renault is responsible for all this?”
    Just like the son of a cop. He had to have it in black and white.
    “If the Emim have been attempting to conjure Amaymon, it explains the rise in demonic activity recently,” Father Santos said. “Remember, Bridget, I told you how a demon must be invited in? I’ve been looking into things. Monsignor Renault administered last rites to Mrs. Long when she was in the hospital with pneumonia, just last month. And Ms. Laveau’s father is an old friend of Monsignor’s. She has him over for dinner at the apartment above the shop once a month.”
    “And he blessed the Fergusons’ house when they moved in this summer,” Bridget said mechanically. Her mouth felt dry and parched. “That’s why Mrs. Ferguson called him after what happened.”
    Father Santos nodded. “All perfect opportunities to perform a ritual or introduce a curse.”
    Bridget’s head spun. “But why? Why summon all these demons?”
    Father Santos shrugged. “Practice. Conjuring a king of Hell isn’t like placing a simple curse. I’d guess he was working his way up to attempting the ritual.”
    “Peter.”
    “Yes. But it didn’t work. Even Peter’s rage wasn’t strong enough. Which is why I told you to be careful. To keep the bracelet on and to learn the mantra on the card.”
    Matt shot to his feet. “Why would Bridget need to be careful?”
    Father Santos angled his head. “Don’t you see? He needs a vessel, someone strong enough to hold a demon. No human is stronger than a Watcher. I thought he might come after you.”
    Monsignor needed a Watcher for the ritual. Bridget caught her breath. “Sammy!”

Thirty-Four
    B RIDGET SPRINTED DOWN THE HALL to Monsignor’s office and threw herself against the door. Locked. Without thinking she reared back, cocked her knee, and kicked the door with all her strength. She wasn’t sure if she actually expected it to give way, but with a crackling of timbers around the frame, the door to Monsignor Renault’s office flew open.
    “Bridget!” Matt bounded after her. “What are you doing?”
    There was no time for explanations. Bridget knew exactly what she needed to find. She whisked the Pietà paperweight off the desk with one hand,