Possess

heaved it across the church like it was made of Styrofoam. This time it crashed into the wall right above the confessional door, sending Father Santos ducking for cover as the tiny room reverberated from the impact.
    “The Master is strong! The Watcher will perish!”
    “This is hopeless,” Bridget said.
    Father Santos shook dust from his hair. “Bridget, listen to me.”
    “What?” In her final moments on the planet, she rather relished the idea of wallowing in her own misery.
    “Look, I know—” He crouched down before her, cradling his knees in his arms. “I know you’re hiding something.”
    “Huh?”
    “I’ve been watching you. At Mrs. Long’s, at the doll shop. You were holding something back, something that bothered you.”
    Bridget sat bolt upright.
    “I’ve seen other Watchers banish demons, and there’s something, a feeling, an energy, that overtakes them. Whatever it is, you’ve been fighting it.”
    He knew? “You’ve seen it before?”
    “Yes.”
    Bridget bit her lip. There were others like her, others who had felt the strange burning in their bodies, the tingling deep within. Maybe even her dad? Maybe he’d felt the same thing? Accepted the same thing?
    “Bridget, in about thirty seconds we’re both going to die. If there was ever a time for you to come to terms with your destiny, this would be it.”
    He said it like it was easy, like taking a stroll down the street or ordering a latte at Starbucks. Come to terms with your destiny, Bridget. It only means you’re part demon.
    “Emerge, slave,” Amaymon roared. He was right outside the confessional.
    Father Santos scrambled to his feet and took a quick glance out the window. He turned back to her and spoke quickly. “I have a plan, but it will only succeed if you’re strong, Bridget. Stronger than you’ve ever been.”
    “Give up the Watcher to me,” Amaymon continued. “And I will spare your life, priest.”
    Father Santos grasped her hand. “Amaymon is not at full strength. I interrupted the conjuration when I scattered your brother’s blood, but it’s only a matter of time before Monsignor rearticulates the symbols to complete the process. And then your brother will be lost forever.”
    “I lose patience, slave,” Amaymon snarled. “I shall crush your bones to dust if you disobey me.”
    “But if I can get the ring off Monsignor’s finger, we might be able to stop the transfer.”
    Bridget cocked her head. “The ring?”
    “It controls the conjuration and protects him from Amaymon.”
    “Will that save my brother?”
    Father Santos shook his head. “No.”
    “Then—”
    “You, Bridget. You’re the only one who can save Sammy.”
    Bridget dropped her eyes. “I can’t.”
    “You can.”
    “Now, slave!”
    “Bridget, it’s time to accept who you are.”
    “Easy for you to say.”
    Father Santos sat back on his heels, then rose majestically to his feet. “On the count of three, I’m opening that door and making a run for Monsignor. You can either follow me, or die here. The choice is yours.”
    With one arm wrapped around her ribs, Bridget hauled herself to her feet. “That’s a choice?”
    Father Santos ignored her. “One. Two. Three! ”

Thirty-Six
    F ATHER S ANTOS SLID THE CONFESSIONAL door open and bolted down the aisle. Bridget could hear his rapid footsteps retreating until the sound was masked by a rumbling laugh.
    “Your priest forsakes you, Watcher,” Amaymon growled.
    Bridget limped into the doorway. Sammy, or the thing possessing Sammy’s body, stood in the center aisle of the church. She could see the tousled black hair, the thin, delicate neck, the blue-and-white Justice League pajamas. But the faint light from the flickering candles illuminated his features enough for Bridget to know that this thing, this creature, was no longer her little brother.
    The muscles of his face had completely rearranged themselves beneath Sammy’s skin. His flat nose was now sharp, and his normally weak chin squared. The lips were thin, almost nonexistent, and parted to reveal jagged, broken teeth. Sammy’s brows protruded over his eyes, which were sunken far back in his skull.
    “Well, Watcher?” Amaymon didn’t move. “Do you not wish to challenge me? Banish me?”
    “Banish. Banish. Banish the Master,” the stained glass windows mocked. “The Watcher cannot. The Master is strong.”
    Bridget’s heart ached. Sammy. This was her fault. She should have been able to predict this. She