Possess

the ice cream?” Sammy asked Monsignor. He wore his Justice League pajamas, rolled at the ankle because he was short for his age. “You said there’d be ice cream.”
    Monsignor crouched in the shadows behind Sammy. He held a sack in his hands from which he poured a stream of black sand, articulating the symbols in the circle. “Soon, Sammy. Very soon.”
    “Is Mr. Darlington bringing the ice cream? Is that where he went?”
    Bridget frowned. Mr. Darlington? Had he been at their house that night?
    “This stinks,” Sammy said when Monsignor didn’t respond. He sat down in the middle of the circle and rested his chin in his hands.
    “If you sit there quietly for another minute,” Monsignor said, straightening up. “I’ll give you a surprise.”
    Sammy perked up. “Really?”
    “Oh, yes.” Monsignor dropped the sack and stepped behind the altar.
    “Good, because I—” Sammy paused, then cocked his head as if he heard something. “Bridge?”
    Bridget caught her breath. How could Sammy know she was there?
    Monsignor reached behind the altar and retrieved a large object. “What did you say?”
    Sammy turned to look at him. “I didn’t know you brought Bridget here too.”
    Even in the dim light of the church, Bridget could see Monsignor’s face harden. He didn’t wait to question her brother but grabbed Sammy and hauled him to his feet.
    “In the name of Amaymon,” Monsignor bellowed. He lifted Sammy up by his wrists so his toes barely touched the ground. “In the name of the king of the west, the wielder of the silver ring.”
    Sammy kicked with his legs, struggling to free himself. “Lemme go!”
    “In the place of the Master, I spill this blood for you!”
    Bridget’s eye caught a glimmer as candlelight flickered off something metallic in Monsignor’s grasp. There was no doubt in her mind what he held: the sword of St. Michael.
    Faster than Bridget could react, Monsignor drew the blade across Sammy’s arms.
    “No!” Bridget screamed, rushing from the shelter of the sacristy.
    “Bridget, wait!” Father Santos hissed.
    Bridget sprinted toward Sammy, who stood frozen in the middle of the circle. Monsignor spun around as her footsteps echoed through the church, but he made no move to stop her. Instead he stepped out of the circle and let Bridget blow past him. Why would he—
    The air was sucked out of Bridget’s lungs as she slammed into something hard and impenetrable at the edge of the circle. Her forehead smacked against an unseen wall, knocking her back as the rest of her body careened into the invisible barrier. There was a sickening crack, followed by a blinding flash of light. She hardly felt the impact against the frigid marble altar, only felt its coldness against the searing pain spreading outward from her chest.
    A gravelly laugh reverberated through the sanctuary. “Always so hot-blooded,” Monsignor said with a click of his tongue. “That’s from your mother, I believe.”
    Bridget rolled onto her side and coughed, trying to catch her breath. Pain shot through her ribs. Her vision blurred and she gasped for air.
    “Your father would have been more cautious. Of course, that’s what got him killed.”
    Bridget forced her eyes open. She couldn’t make out Monsignor’s features, with the exception of his eyes: They glowed a deep orange against the darkness of the church. She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
    “You’re too late, anyway.” Monsignor pointed to her brother. “The conjuration has begun.”
    Bridget propped herself up and gazed at her brother. It was Sammy, but it wasn’t.
    His eyes were entirely black. Ugly, empty pits of darkness where Sammy’s dark brown irises used to be. He seemed larger; not taller or fatter, but as if he occupied more space than her little brother usually did. His shoulders were broad, his head thrown back, his palms turned upward as if he were supporting the weight of the church in his hands.
    Then she saw the blood. It dripped from Sammy’s wrists where two ugly gashes marred his flesh. His blood undulated, rippled, and spread through the arcs and lines of the circle like it had an intelligence all its own. Once the blood filled every crevice, completing its circular bond, it raced faster and faster through the maze of symbols until Bridget could hardly see the movement at all.
    “You can come out now, Santos,” Monsignor called.
    Father Santos shuffled forward from the shadows of the sacristy. “We know