Possess

die. It was all her fault. She should just let the demon kill her and be done with it. At least then she’d be free. No more pain, no more suffering. And maybe she’d see her dad again.
    Vade retro satana .
    The words came to her as soon as she thought of her dad. Vade retro satana . Step back, Satan.
    The St. Benedict medal trembled, then her hands and arms, her feet and legs began to vibrate. She’d never felt it this strong before, racing through her like lightning, buzzing and churning, awakening every last inch of her body with its energy, its heat, its life.
    “Vade retro satana,” she murmured.
    She heard Amaymon catch his breath.
    “Vade retro satana.” Her voice was stronger, more powerful. The sensations in her body intensified in waves. She got to her feet; her ankle no longer throbbed with pain. The energy rose to a fever pitch. Bridget reached the tipping point. If she didn’t force the feelings back, they would take over, swamp her, consume her.
    Amaymon growled and lowered his head, his orange eyes filling the darkness beneath his brows.
    “Bridget!” Father Santos yelled above the fury. “This is who you are. This is who you—” His voice choked off.
    “Shut up, fool,” Monsignor snarled. “You cannot help her now.”
    This is who you are . This is who I am. I’m Bridget Liu and I’m a Watcher.
    “VADE RETRO SATANA!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. She spread her arms wide, closed her eyes, and let the vibrations wash over her.
    She was floating on water, her body buoyed, enfolded by warm, tropical waves. She no longer felt the cold interior of the church, the lacquered wood of the pew, the harsh marble beneath her feet. The screams of the demons, the clash of Monsignor’s sword, the growling form of Amaymon: None of it existed.
    Every inch of her body seemed alive, crackling with energy. The pain in her ribs and ankle was gone. She ran her fingers through her hair, down the sides of her face, across her chest, down to her hips and back up again. Her fingertips lingered at her neck, caressing the soft skin, indulging in the teasing stings of electricity at each touch.
    “Oh my God,” Father Santos said.
    Bridget opened her eyes to find the chaos of the church had ceased entirely. The stained glass angels stared at her, motionless. The shadows stood frozen on the wall. Monsignor had one arm around Father Santos’s neck and the sword of St. Michael in the other.
    And Sammy.
    She could still see Sammy, the real Sammy, standing small and docile in his Justice League pajamas, his eyes closed as if sleepwalking. Surrounding him was a new creature, a figure defined in black smoke, its indefinite shape illuminated by silvery light that shifted and seethed. This was the entity she’d caught a fleeting glimpse of at Mrs. Long’s. This was the invisible hand that choked her, the unseen force that threw pews, that attacked Matt. This was Amaymon, the real Amaymon, a demon king of Hell.
    Then she realized something else. She was staring this creature—this towering shadow of evil—dead in the eye.
    She looked down at her body. The silver light was coming from her. Through her. Was her. The outline of her hands and fingers was obscured by a blur of intense light. She couldn’t even see her jeans and sneakers, just a pillar of light extending ten feet down to the floor.
    Well, that was new.
    She should have been afraid. She should have closed her eyes and wished she was safe in her bed at home, but she didn’t. She should have looked to Father Santos for advice on what to do next, but she didn’t need to. Somehow, she just knew.
    “Amaymon, fallen from Grace.” Her voice sounded huge.
    Amaymon backed away from her. “This cannot be. This cannot be.”
    She followed him. “The Watchers were given dominion over you and your kin.”
    “We are strong.” Amaymon sounded anything but. “We are many.”
    “I banish you.”
    Groans and howls of agony pierced her eardrums. Father Santos and Monsignor must have heard them as well; both sprawled on the floor, hands clamped to their ears. The glow of Bridget’s skin intensified. The stained glass angels shielded their faces from her light, and the shadows on the wall faded into the dappled stone.
    From the back of the church, Bridget heard running footsteps, followed by a door opening, then slamming shut. Had there been someone else in the church with them? She pushed the thought out of her mind. She had more pressing matters to