Possess

into Sammy’s body.
    “Ah,” Monsignor said, following her eye to Sammy. “Very soon, now. Very soon we shall—”
    In a blur of movement, Father Santos kicked the sword and sent it sliding into the center of the circle. As it careened across the marble floor, it cut a swath through the symbols, scattering the blood in its wake.
    “No!” Monsignor raced into the circle, but the damage had already been done. Sammy slumped back on his heels, teetered like a drunken man, then crumpled to the ground amid the remnants of blood.
    “Bridget,” Father Santos yelled. “Run!”
    Bridget pushed off from the altar and staggered toward the limp body of her little brother. Monsignor was already at Sammy’s side, rolling him over onto his back.
    “Master,” he cried. “Master, speak to me.”
    “Sammy,” Bridget mumbled. The pain in her ribs burst fresh through her, but she had to get Sammy away from that murderer. Had to.
    Father Santos gripped her wrist and pulled her down the stairs into the sanctuary. “Move. Now.”
    A monstrous gust of wind raced through the sanctuary from the front of the church, extinguishing all of the candles. Bridget and Father Santos froze halfway down the aisle as a deafening growl shook the stone floor beneath their feet.
    Moonlight filtered in through the stained glass windows. In the near darkness, Bridget could hear Monsignor’s choking sobs. His voice cracked. “Master?”
    “Sammy?” Bridget whispered.
    A voice like nails on a chalkboard answered. “No.”
    Another blast of air rushed through the church, down one wall, around the back and up the other side. In its wake, the candles reignited and shadows emerged, dancing along the walls of the church—erect, menacing figures at once human and animal, their bodies darting and racing around Bridget and Father Santos. The angels in the stained glass windows began to dance and jabber, the words at first strange and foreign as they were shouted forth from all corners of the church at random, but as the words came together into a demonic chant, Bridget could clearly make them out:
    “Amaymon, Master. The Master is here!”
    “That can’t be good,” Bridget said.
    “Master,” Monsignor said, his voice raw with crying. Bridget could see him now, kneeling by the altar. “Master, you are not at full strength.”
    “I am strong enough,” Amaymon said through Sammy’s body. “For them.”
    Sammy stood at the front of the church. He pointed directly at her.
    “Watcher,” Amaymon snarled. “Your time is over.”
    Before she could respond, Sammy bent at the waist, gripped the front pew, and with a crackle of splintering wood, ripped it from its foundations.
    “Move!” Father Santos yelled. He pulled her down the aisle. “Move, move, m—”
    Sammy lifted the pew over his head like it was a cardboard box and, with a heave, sent the entire thing flying in their direction.
    Father Santos pushed Bridget into the aisle, then dove after her. Her broken ribs cracked again as she slammed into the kneeler, and her ankle wrenched in agony. The pew missed Father Santos’s head by inches, landing two rows behind them.
    The angels in the stained glass windows erupted in cheers and shouts as Father Santos scrambled to his feet, hauling Bridget after him. “Come on.”
    “There is no escape, slave,” Amaymon said. “There is no escape from my house.”
    Bridget stumbled after Father Santos, down toward the back corner of the church. The pain from her ribs and twisted ankle were blending together so that every movement, every breath brought renewed agony. Just when she thought she couldn’t take another step, Father Santos threw open the confessional and dragged Bridget inside.
    “NO ESCAPE!” Amaymon roared. He grunted as the sound of cracking wood echoed overhead. Then, with a heave, another pew came flying through the air and crashed through the crying room window.
    Bridget propped herself up with one arm, the other wrapped tightly around her rib cage. “Please tell me,” she said between gasping breaths, “that you have a plan.”
    Father Santos peeked through the confessional window. “Other than fleeing for our lives? No.”
    Bridget’s breaths came shorter and shorter. She was light-headed from the shallow panting, and the pain had spread from her chest down to her hips and up through her shoulders.
    Another roar. Another splintering of wood as the demon king possessing Sammy’s body ripped a pew out of the floor and