Possess

wait for the police.”
    “If you wait here, your brother will die.”
    “She’s not going with you,” Matt said through clenched teeth.
    Father Santos ignored him, turning to Bridget. “You can save your brother.”
    “What if I can’t?” Bridget stuttered. Panic welled up inside her. Never before had the stakes of a banishment been so high. And so personal. “What if I don’t know how to save him?”
    Father Santos smiled, restoring some of the goofiness to his face. “It’s who you are, Bridget. You just have to accept it.”
    Bridget stared at her feet while Matt’s grip on her shoulders tightened. It would be so much easier just to stay in the rectory, to let Matt take control and wait in his arms until the police arrived. But she knew in her heart that Father Santos was right, and if Sammy died it would be on her head.
    She looked into Matt’s eyes and wanted to cry. “Matt—”
    “No,” he said. “I won’t let you. You’re staying here with—”
    He never got the last word out. There was a flash of movement behind him—a blur of white and black just above Matt’s head. Matt stood stunned for a split second, then crumpled to the ground.
    “I’m sorry,” Father Santos said, dropping the Pietà paperweight next to Matt’s limp body. “But we were running out of time.” He knelt down and examined Matt’s head. “He’ll be fine. Just a nasty lump tomorrow.”
    “You didn’t have to knock him out.”
    Father Santos laughed. “Yeah, right. He cares for you too much to let you confront your dad’s murderer with a strange priest in the middle of the night.” He was serious again in an instant. “Are you ready?”
    “Not really.”
    “Good. Then let’s go save your brother, okay?”

Thirty-Five
    F ATHER S ANTOS WAS MORE AGILE than he looked. Bridget had been half afraid he’d trip over his own feet going down the rectory stairs and topple ass over elbows into a broken mess on the landing. But in a stroke of surrealness not seen outside a VH1 reality show, Father Santos careened down the stairs like a Navy SEAL in boot camp and was ten strides ahead of Bridget by the time she reached the courtyard.
    Maybe he was a warrior priest, after all.
    There was a strange but familiar dance of lights in the St. Michael’s courtyard. Bridget glanced up and saw a menacing collage of red and blue, green and gold lapping at the cobbled stone and masonry of the courtyard. Peter’s murder scene flashed before her eyes: the sea of candles around the altar, the strange circle of figures and symbols, the body splayed within.
    Only this time, the body would be Sammy’s.
    Father Santos sprinted for the door of the sacristy, whipping out a key and unlocking the priests’ entrance without so much as a click of the bolt.
    Bridget followed him into the church, but as soon as she stepped inside, it felt like she was passing through a wall of cobwebs, thick and sticky, clinging to her skin like a lattice of Silly String. She scraped her hands against her arms and face, but there was nothing touching her, just the sensation of hatred and malevolence weighing her down. Evil had attached itself to her, seeping through her skin.
    “Bridget,” Father Santos whispered. His fingers dug into her arms, and Bridget realized he was holding her up, preventing her from collapsing.
    Bridget felt like she was drowning in the darkness. “I can’t,” she panted. “I can’t.”
    “Vade retro satana,” he said under his breath. “Say it.”
    “Vade,” she said. That was all she could remember.
    “Retro,” he prompted.
    “Retro satana.”
    Her St. Benedict medal lurched, and the darkness retreated.
    “The motto of the Watchers,” he whispered. “Why do you think I gave it to you?”
    “Oh.” Would have been nice if he’d mentioned that before.
    Her head cleared. She felt herself again, strong legs, strong mind. Bridget took a deep breath. Time to find Sammy.
    A doorless arch separated the priests’ dressing area from the church altar. Bridget flattened herself against the wall and peered around the archway.
    It was a scene she’d expected to see, a scene she had witnessed before. The church was awash in candlelight, black and white sticks of wax mounted in every sconce and on every surface around the altar. She could just make out the scribbles of symbols in a rough circle, and in the middle stood a small figure with hair sticking every which way, silhouetted against the candlelight.
    “Where’s