Possess

then, crouching low behind the desk, she pushed up and out with her legs, tipping the heavy rosewood desk onto its side.
    Tiffany lamp and plastic desk accessories crashed to the floor, but Bridget’s eyes were fixed on the underside of the desk—the drawer Monsignor kept locked at all times, his private notebook stored within.
    With a fierce swing of the Pietá, Bridget ripped into the flimsy wooden base of the drawer, punching a hole straight through. She flung the paperweight away and tore open the bottom of the drawer with her hands, the cheap wood splintering as she pulled half the panel away.
    Father Santos jogged up behind Matt. “Wow,” he panted.
    Bridget thrust her hand into the drawer, searching frantically for the notebook. Monsignor wrote everything down—every note, every thought, every comment. If Father Santos was right, if Monsignor was in league with the Emim, the evidence would be here.
    Her fingertips grazed a soft leather surface. “Yes!”
    “What?” Matt asked. He was at her side in two strides. “What is it?”
    Bridget twisted her arm and yanked a black notebook out of the underbelly of Monsignor’s desk.
    “Monsignor’s diary,” Father Santos said.
    Bridget flipped to the back of the book and scanned for the last entry.
    “‘If I’d only known Santos had the grimoire all along,’” Bridget read aloud. “‘No matter. The conjuration is almost ready. The girl would be too difficult, but perhaps the boy?’”
    “Dear God,” Father Santos gasped. He lifted the notebook from her hand.
    Bridget’s hands shook. The boy . It had to be Sammy.
    “NO!” she cried. Bridget fumbled in her pocket for her cell phone. She had to warn her mom.
    Matt was a step ahead of her. “Yes, I’d like to report a kidnapping,” he said, cell phone at his ear. “My name is Matt Quinn. My father is Sergeant Stephen Quinn, Central Station, and I need units to report to two four two six Ulloa.”
    Bridget’s feet were rooted to the floor as her trembling fingers hit the autodial button on her cell phone. The home phone rang three times and went to voice mail. Her mom never let it get past two.
    “Bridget.” Father Santos’s face was hard, and his eyes were keenly focused on her. “Bridget, if Monsignor has your brother, we don’t have much time.”
    “Dad?” Matt said into his phone. “Dad, you need to get to Mrs. Liu’s house right away. Look, I can’t explain but something’s wrong, okay? No, I’m with Bridget. We’re down at St. Michael’s.”
    “Bridget, are you listening to me?”
    Her eyes drifted back to Father Santos. She noticed his knuckles turning white as his fingers gripped Monsignor’s journal.
    “The police won’t be able to do anything if Monsignor has already started the ritual of blood. You are the only one who can save your brother.”
    Matt shoved his cell phone back in his pocket. “We’re not going anywhere until my dad gets here.”
    “What do you mean?” Bridget asked Father Santos. She’d never seen him so calm, so focused. His stutter was gone entirely, and he’d lost most of his fumbliness.
    “I mean if the ritual works, once Monsignor begins the conjuration, once Sammy’s blood mixes with the essence of Amaymon and the demon begins to take form, the police won’t be able to stop it.”
    “What will happen to Sammy?”
    Father Santos shook his head. “I’m not sure, but if Amaymon isn’t banished, your brother will die.”
    “But you don’t even know where they are,” Matt said. “They could be doing this ritual anywhere.”
    “A relic of the archangels,” Bridget muttered. “The sword of St. Michael.”
    “Yes,” Father Santos whispered.
    “And a church claimed by demons.”
    “St. Michael’s,” Father Santos said with a nod. “It’s one of the reasons the Order of St. Michael asked your father to move into this district. We’ve always suspected that this church was built for a special purpose.”
    Bridget’s eyes drifted to the three portraits of archangels that hung on the wall. Raphael, Gabriel, and Michael. Michael, the leader of God’s army. Michael, whose sword hung in the church below. Michael, the patron of the Order of St. Michael, her protectors. Michael fighting the serpent on the rock. Vade retro satana .
    Matt grabbed her shoulders and spun her around to face him. “Bridge, you can’t be serious. If Monsignor Renault really killed your dad and your friend, he’s dangerous. Like, homicidal. We should