Possess

all about your c-connection to the Emim, Renault.”
    Monsignor laughed. “If that were true, they’d have sent a real member of the order to deal with me, instead of the librarian.”
    “You’re a librarian?” Bridget sputtered, finding her voice. Perfect. She glanced at Sammy, the blood still oozing from his body. Time was running out, and here she was facing a homicidal priest and a demon king, and all the Vatican had sent her was a librarian?
    “Did he tell you he was one of the legendary warriors of the Order of St. Michael?” Monsignor sneered. “Look at him. Did you really think he could protect you?”
    “W-w-well,” Father Santos stuttered. “I—I . . . I mean. I’m not really. I mean, I am but I’m not. And I—I know a . . . a lot about . . . things.”
    They were completely screwed.
    “The conjuring has begun,” Monsignor repeated. He looked pointedly at Bridget. “You cannot stop it now. The circle of Amaymon will prevent even a Watcher from entering its domain.”
    Father Santos cleared his throat. Bridget looked up and saw him wiggling his fingers and jutting out his chin, trying to get her attention. His eyes flitted toward the sword, which lay discarded near the front of the altar, then back to Bridget. He gave a slight nod of the head, and Bridget realized what he was after. He was going for the sword, and he needed Bridget to keep Monsignor distracted.
    Distracted. Okay . . .
    “My dad,” she began, grasping at straws. “My dad knew what you were.”
    “Your father consulted me on the Undermeyer case. He thought he was so clever. Asked me to give the man a blessing.” Monsignor smiled. “As if I would fall for that.”
    “Fall for what?”
    “His little trap. He guessed the janitor had broken into the church to steal the sword before I could use it.” Monsignor pointed at her. “Your father hoped that if he put Undermeyer face-to-face with me, he’d be able to figure out why the sword was so important.”
    Bridget gritted her teeth. “You killed him.”
    “Of course I killed him. The Emim have the power to obscure the minds of men. With their help, I outsmarted your father, that fool of a police sergeant, all of you.”
    She wanted to throw herself on him, tear at his face with her fingernails, strangle him with her bare hands. She tried to stand, but the pain in her cracked ribs shot through her body. She stumbled into the altar and clung to it to keep from sinking to her knees.
    A movement from above caught her eye. The stained glass windows were moving. Not a trick of the eye from the quivering light of a hundred candles, but moving of their own accord. The angels, those menacing, nightmarish angels with their empty eyes and blood-tipped swords, had come to life.
    “To the Master!” they cried, dozens of swords lifted to the heavens. She could hear the clattering of steel as the stained glass angels clamored around their panes. “The Watchers will perish. The Watchers will perish.”
    “By the ritual of blood I will conjure Amaymon.” Monsignor spun around, addressing the angels in the windows. “In this holy place, built by the Emim, built for the Master. I shall use the archangel’s sword against him. The Master will rise and I will take my place at his right hand, his beloved servant.”
    The church, built by the Emim. The sword, used to raise a demon king. It made sense, all of it. Except for one thing.
    “Why did you train me?” Bridget asked. It didn’t really matter, but after all they’d been through together, Bridget needed to know. “Why teach me how to use my powers?”
    Monsignor laughed. “Once your father was out of the way, I had a clear path before me to conjure the Master. Until that call from Mrs. Ferguson. I needed to know for sure what you were, what I might be up against.”
    “Up against?”
    “How powerful you were as a Watcher. And you are powerful, Bridget. Too powerful. I originally planned to use you for the conjuration, but thankfully—” He glanced at Sammy, and the ugly curl of his lip returned. “Thankfully, there is another Watcher in the Liu family.”
    Bridget turned her face away, appalled she’d never before seen Monsignor for what he was, ashamed at her own bad judgment. What an idiot she’d been.
    Sammy’s body lurched. In the circle, the blood had reversed its course. Instead of pouring out of his body, it was now crawling up his feet and legs, back to the slashes in his arms. The blood was flowing back