Possess

should have been able to protect him, and now here he was, with a demon’s soul sucking the life from his body. Poor Sammy.
    Who’s been ripping pews out of the ground and launching them across the room.
    But it was still her brother, who did her math homework for her when she didn’t feel like doing it herself and who still crawled into bed with her when he’d been spooked by a nightmare. Amaymon was not fully conjured. Not yet. He was still Sammy.
    If that’s half strength, you’re seriously screwed, Bridge.
    True, but if she was going to die, she was going to do it trying to save her brother’s life.
    “I banish you, Amaymon.”
    Laughter rippled through the windows above.
    “Finish her, Master.” Monsignor’s voice was harsh, empty. She couldn’t believe she’d ever trusted him. “Finish her so we can complete your conjuration.”
    “I banish you from this church,” Bridget continued.
    “Do you?” Amaymon growled. Still he did not move.
    His calmness unnerved her. “I banish you from this world.”
    “Yes?”
    “I—I . . .” Her words seemed to have no effect, and that tingling feeling had completely abandoned her.
    Monsignor’s voice boomed from the altar where he stood. “The Watcher is weak.”
    “Yes,” Amaymon growled.
    “Show the Watch—”
    Bridget heard a high-pitched scream, then watched as Father Santos barreled across the altar like a free safety and tackled Monsignor.
    “You cannot stop me,” Monsignor yelled as Father Santos attempted to pin his hands to the ground. “It’s too late.”
    “Hurry, Bridget,” Father Santos cried.
    Hurry and do what? So far, nothing she said had affected the demon king in the slightest.
    “The slave is foolish,” Amaymon said, his full attention turned back to Bridget. “It is time for you to see what real power is.”
    Bridget never saw what hit her. One moment she was leaning against the confessional, and the next she was dangling six feet off the floor, grasping at an invisible hand that squeezed her throat. A cacophony of shrieks and screams filled the church, and the menagerie of shadows lining the wall erupted in a frenzy of thrashing limbs and bodies. In the distance she could hear Father Santos and Monsignor wrestling on the altar.
    The invisible hand that gripped her was massive, the fingers long enough to wrap all the way around her neck. As her senses began to dull, Bridget could have sworn she heard laughter. Not the deep, cacophonous laughter of demons, but a girlish giggle. She pried at the cold, scaly flesh at her throat, and out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw two figures in the darkened corner of the church: a tall, slender man and a girl with a halo of curls around her head, both with glowing green eyes. They looked so familiar, but as the hand continued to squeeze, Bridget lost sight of them. Her windpipe closed off, her lungs seized up from lack of air. She felt herself slipping into the darkness.
    “Let her go!”
    It took Bridget a moment to realize who had spoken.
    “I said, let her go!” Matt yelled.
    The hand released her. Bridget crashed onto a pew, her feet sliding out from underneath her as she collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
    “Bridget?” Matt called. She heard his footsteps thundering down the aisle. “Bridge, are you okay?”
    She hoisted herself onto the pew and held her arms out before her, trying to keep him away. “Matt, don’t. Get out of here.”
    “Fool!” Amaymon cried.
    Matt’s sneakers screeched to a halt. “Sammy? Sammy, is that you?”
    Bridget caught a gleam in Amaymon’s eye. She heaved herself into the aisle and pointed toward the door. “Matt, get out. Get—”
    A guttural roar from her possessed little brother froze the words on her lips. Amaymon shot his hand forward. Matt’s body flew through the church, over the altar, and hit the wall next to the crucifix.
    “No!” Bridget screamed. She stumbled forward, her eyes fixed on Matt’s crumpled body.
    She didn’t make it ten steps before the invisible hand grabbed ahold of her hair and yanked her to the ground. Her skull cracked against the stone floor; sickening pain engulfed her. She wanted to vomit, but the pain in her chest was so crippling it stopped her heaves.
    Amaymon stood before her. “Stand, Watcher.” The angels in the windows cheered him on. “Stand and meet your death.”
    Tears streamed down her face. Peter was dead. Matt was dead. Sammy and Father Santos would