Possess (10 page)

Coincidence? Could it have been a weird twist of fate that this charm just happened to catch her dad’s eye in a store window? No. That was too ridiculous for even Bridget to buy. But the alternative was even more disturbing: Her dad had known exactly what that medal meant when he gave it
to her.

How?

She snapped her laptop closed and shoved it back under the bed. Nothing but questions that had no answers. That was her life now: one giant question mark.

Why her? Why was all of this happening to her? She felt like a baton getting passed along in a relay race, completely devoid of any control over her own destiny. She hadn’t asked for this power, and now she was expected to “help” people like it was her nine-to-five job.

What if she didn’t want to? What if she didn’t go with Monsignor tomorrow? The world wouldn’t end. He’d be disappointed, sure, but he’d do the banishment himself, as he’d done hundreds and hundreds of times before. It wouldn’t be a big deal.

That was it. She was taking control. She wasn’t going to be anybody’s pawn. If she didn’t want to do the banishment tomorrow, then that was that.

Bridget’s temples throbbed. The stress of the last few days was taking its toll. Matt was right; she needed someone to confide in.

Her dad would have understood. He would have listened to her, calmly and without judgment. He’d always been like that. Where her mom was emotional with a wicked temper, her dad had been quiet, serene, unflappable. He had always understood Bridget, always seemed to know what his Pumpkin Bunny was thinking and feeling, even when she didn’t understand it herself.

Pumpkin Bunny. Bridget’s eyes drifted to the bookshelf where her favorite childhood toy sat propped up in the corner. It had been a gift from her dad from before she could remember, a soft, fluffy stuffed bunny popping out of a pumpkin like a stripper from a birthday cake. She and Pumpkin Bunny had been inseparable. She had dragged that thing with her everywhere she went, since before she could walk until she was old enough to think that stuffed animals were lame. Its once-white fur was now yellowish gray, and its head had undergone so many surgeries, the multicolored threads from her mom’s sewing kit made it look more Frankenbunny than Pumpkin Bunny. But even when the toy had been relegated to a spot on her bookshelf, the nickname stuck. To her dad, Bridget was always Pumpkin Bunny.

Bridget rested her forehead against her knees, closed her eyes, and listened to the sound of her breath: inhale one . . . two, exhale one . . . two, inhale one . . . two, exhale one . . . two.

“I miss you, Dad,” she said out loud. “I wish you were here.”

Something brushed past her leg. Something small, fuzzy, and moving quickly. Bridget’s eyes flew open. Not only was she hearing a phantom cat, now she was feeling one too?

From deep inside her closet, Bridget again heard the faint scratching of a cat’s claws.

Thirteen

“W
HAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE
not coming?” Monsignor said, holding open the door of his navy blue Crown Vic.

Bridget glanced from Monsignor to Father Santos and back, then shrugged. “I’m not going. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Bridget, I don’t understand.” Monsignor frowned and shot Father Santos an accusatory look, before turning back to her. “I thought we understood one another.”

She couldn’t look him in the eye. “I don’t want to be like this.”

“Like what?”

A weapon? “A freak.”

“Bridget, you have a gift, a gift many people would kill to possess.”

Kill to possess? Was he crazy? Maybe kill to get rid of. Or maybe just kill.

Monsignor knelt in front of her, his bushy white eyebrows pinched together above his nose. Bridget wasn’t sure if he was about to give her a pep talk or a proposal.

“Bridget, think about what you’re saying.” He leaned an arm on his knee in what Bridget suspected was an attempt to look casual. She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. “Think of the people you’ve helped already. The Fergusons and Mrs. Long.”

It was true, Bridget couldn’t deny it. Who knew what would have happened that night to Danny and Manny if she hadn’t been there?

Or maybe it was true that the demons were there
because
she had been babysitting at the Fergusons’. Possessions seemed to be following her around.

Father Santos stepped between them. “We can’t force Bridget to go,” he said lightly. “I doubt her gift is as effective if she’s using it against her will.”

Monsignor’s eyes flashed toward Father Santos with a look of what Bridget could only describe as disgust. “This is none of your business, Father.”

“If she doesn’t want to go,” Father Santos continued with a smile, “she doesn’t have to.” He looked utterly pleased with the turn of events.

Monsignor bolted to his feet. “I’m sorry, Father Santos. I did not realize that you were in charge of exorcisms for this archdiocese. I did not realize that you were the only senior exorcist in the United States.”

Father Santos had to tilt his head back to look Monsignor in the face. The older priest towered above him, hands clenched at his sides, looming over Father Santos like a wave about to break on the lowly shore.

“Er,” Father Santos stuttered. “Well, no, of course. I mean, the Vatican has, well . . . I mean.”

Bridget almost felt sorry for Father Santos. It was like watching a rabbit go up against a grizzly bear. Slaughterfest.

“Exactly.” Monsignor narrowed his eyes. “And if you think for one second that you have enough experience, enough faith, enough knowledge of this girl and what she is capable of, then by all means, I shall step aside and let you proceed with today’s banishment.”

“M-M-Monsignor Renault,” Father Santos managed to spit out. “I—I’m only saying that Bridget, well, she—she should decide for herself.”

“Really?” Monsignor swung around and addressed Bridget in his booming, official exorcist’s voice. “Bridget, what have we trained for? What have we spent all this time working on together?”

Oh, so
this
is what Catholic guilt felt like.

“Well?”

“I, uh . . .” It was a silly question. Monsignor was right: He’d spent so much time training her, teaching her, believing in her. Was she really going to give all that up because she freaked out at the feeling she got when she banished a demon? Was she really that selfish?

“Hey, Bridge!” Matt Quinn ran across the parking lot. Flail. “Bridge, wait up.”

“Matt,” Bridget said, trying to sound casual. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey, I thought maybe you’d want a ride home,” he said as he jogged up to the car. “I saw Hector out front and he said he hadn’t seen you after school so I came looking for you.”

Bridget closed her eyes. Sweet cartwheeling Jesus! God forbid she do anything without Matt and her mom sticking their noses in it.

“Bridget has some official parish business to attend to this afternoon,” Monsignor said.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Matt said to Monsignor with a nod of his head. Such a good Catholic boy. “I didn’t realize—”

“You are Sergeant Stephen Quinn’s son, are you not?” Monsignor asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I see.”

“Matt,” Bridget started, “I need to go.”

“Oh.” Matt looked at her sidelong. “You okay, Bridget?”

“Yeah.” She didn’t want to get into it with him; he’d be on the phone to her mom five seconds after the words “I’m going to an exorcism” hit the air.

Matt’s eyes flicked between the two priests, then landed on her face with a look of confusion. “Do you need me to come with you?”

Bridget, Monsignor, and Father Santos all answered in unison. “No!”

Matt’s brows drew together, and Bridget recognized that familiar look of concern and, barf, responsibility. His face pleaded with her silently for some sort of explanation. She didn’t know why, but she thought it was kind of sweet. “I’m fine,” she said, reaching for the car door. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

He grasped her hand, intertwining his fingers loosely in hers. “Promise?”

Bridget’s heart thumped in her chest. What was wrong with her? “Yeah,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Yeah, I promise.”

Far from appeased, Matt’s brows lowered over his eyes. He bent his head close to hers. Bridget held her breath. “We’re still on for Saturday night, right?”

“The Winter Formal?” Father Santos asked. He sounded surprised.

Matt straightened up and withdrew his hand from hers. Bridget wasn’t sure if she wanted to thank Father Santos or murder him.

“Yeah,” Matt said. “Bridget and I are going.”

Father Santos’s jaw dropped. “You’re going to the Winter Formal? Together?”

“Yes, we are,” Matt said. “Is there a problem?”

“N-no. I just, I just thought—”

“BRIDGE!”
A shriek pealed across the parking lot. Bridget spun around to find Peter Kim sprinting to the car.

Really?
Really?
First Matt, now Peter? She’d managed to avoid him all day and now he found her? Was she being punished for something?

“Interesting timing,” Father Santos muttered.

“Bridge,” Peter panted as he trotted up to her, all red faced and sweaty from his brief outburst of physical activity. He brushed past Matt without a glance in his direction. “Bridge, I’ve . . . I’ve come to take you home.”

Bridget snorted. “I can get myself home, Peter.”

“But I can protect you.”

Was he serious? “Protect me from—”

“If anyone’s taking Bridget home,” Matt interrupted. “It’s me.”

Oh, great. A pissing contest. “Guys, seriously? I don’t need either of you to—”

Peter turned to face his rival. The pointy ends of his spastic hair barely reached Matt’s shoulders. “I’ve known her longer.”

Matt took a step forward. “No, you haven’t.”

“Bridget’s my responsibility.”

She freaking hated that word. “Guys, I’m right here.”

“I think Bridget can decide for herself,” Matt said, ignoring her. “Who she wants to take her home.”

This was ridiculous. “Yes, Bridget can,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “And she chooses neither.”

They turned to her at the same time. “Huh?”

“Yeah. Parish business, remember? I need to go.”

Peter grabbed her arm. “But—”

“Boys,” Monsignor barked. His patience was maxed out. “We’re on a bit of a schedule. So if you don’t mind?” He draped an arm around each of them and aimed them back toward the school.

Peter stumbled, resisting the strong arm of Monsignor. He kept trying to wiggle free, like he was going to run back and sweep Bridget away before anyone could stop him. But Matt allowed himself to be led away, glancing back at Bridget as Monsignor shepherded him across the courtyard. There was a piece of Bridget that wanted to run after
him, to tell him everything that had been happening with
her, in case he was somehow able to shield her from the darkness that had overshadowed her life. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t let her guard down, show her weakness. She was tough, and she wasn’t about to let Matt Quinn take care
of her.

Monsignor ushered the boys into the school building, then strode purposefully back to the car. “Well, Bridget? What will it be?”

Oh, that
. With a sigh, Bridget opened the door and ducked into the car. She knew Monsignor was right; she had to do this.

“Excellent.” Monsignor dashed to the driver’s side with unexpected spryness.

Father Santos stuck his chubby face through the car door before Bridget could pull it closed. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, why not?” For some reason, his concern annoyed her.

He stared at her for a moment, then shrugged. “Never mind.”

Bridget used her boot to push open the back door of the Crown Vic. She always got vaguely carsick riding in the backseat and that afternoon was no exception. It wasn’t the twisting and turning so much as the painful stop-and-go motion, the Monsignor’s braking technique pitching the heavy old lady car forward at every stop sign, traffic light, and crosswalk from St. Michael’s Prep to the Marina.

Thankfully it was a silent ride, so Bridget could focus all of her attention on not blowing chunks in the backseat of Monsignor Renault’s car. Not that anyone would have noticed. Monsignor and Father Santos were too preoccupied with ignoring each other to pay any attention to their captive.

Captive. Okay, maybe she was being a little dramatic. After all, it had been her choice. But then why did she feel like she was there against her will?

“Um, are you sure you’re okay, Bridget?” Father Santos said from the sidewalk.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’ve been sitting in the car for five minutes.”

“Oh. Right.” She scooted across the seat and slid out onto the street.

For the first time Bridget noticed where they were: a store on a side street off the busy Marina shopping district. It was one of the newer buildings, constructed after the Loma Prieta earthquake destroyed huge parts of the neighborhood. There were three stories of apartments stacked above the main floor, all with the traditional paneled bay windows that marked even the new additions to San Francisco architecture, and there was some sort of shop below, its façade of floor-to-ceiling windows painted with garish bubble-gum pink Victorian lettering.

Bridget had banished the demons in the twins’ bedroom. She’d liberated old Mrs. Long. But she’d never faced—

“Mrs. Pickleman’s Tiny Princess Doll Shoppe?” she said. “Please tell me we’re going to an apartment upstairs.”

Monsignor Renault gripped her shoulder as if he thought she might make a break for it. “No, this is it.”

“A doll shop?”

Oh, shit.

Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit.

There was nothing creepier in the whole wide world than dolls. Even as a kid Bridget couldn’t handle the porcelain-faced little freaks her grandma sent her. She’d stuff them into the bottom of her toy chest, where the moonlight couldn’t reflect off their beady glass eyes while she slept—eyes that seemed to follow her around the room, just waiting for her to turn her back before the dolls leaped off the shelf to throttle her with their wee cold hands.

Monsignor gave Bridget a nudge, and she stumbled forward. Why couldn’t she have said no and meant it?

He pushed open the glass door, tripping an old-fashioned bell that hung overhead. Its high-pitched tinkling was like a death knell.

Bridget froze just inside the doorway. Facing her was a display case populated by old, withered dolls. They were bald, sort of, hair painted on their freaky little wooden skulls. They wore varieties of period clothes—some kind of Old West-y, some more turn of the century—all with a similar look on their faces: painted eyes staring straight ahead, lips puckered and slightly flared like they were cooing. Most of them were chipped, the flesh-colored paint flaking off their faces, and they sat at odd angles, leaning on one another for support like an infant leper colony.

Right in the middle of the case sat the largest doll, a
Little House on the Prairie
-ish thing whose wooden face looked like it had been mauled by a dog. Bridget glanced away from the doll, then froze. She could have sworn the thing moved. Her heart pounded as she tentatively stepped back in front of the case and bent down so her face was level with the doll. This time there was no mistake.

The doll winked at her.

In a panic, Bridget spun around for the door but found herself staring at a wall of dolls. To her left, to her right, all four walls were lined with similar glass cases, packed to the brim with round-faced dolls. Plastic, porcelain, swaddled like infants, dressed like fairy queens and Disney princesses. Caucasian, black, Hispanic, Asian—a United Nations of horror.

Bridget shivered. Of course this place was infested with demons. Of course it was. This was Hell.

“Monsignor, I’m so glad you’re here.” A woman rushed forward. She had wavy black hair and wore a black turtleneck, skirt, and tights, with painfully red lipstick smeared across her mouth. She looked more late-nineties goth than fussy doll shop owner.

“Of course, Ms. Laveau.”

“Papa said if anyone could help, it would be you.”

“We’ll see what we can do.”

“The noises have gotten more . . .” Ms. Laveau passed a hand over her hair. “Violent.”

Monsignor nodded. “I see. Still only at night?”

Ms. Laveau nodded. “I’m sorry you couldn’t witness it yourself when you were here last week, but I noted the times like you suggested.” She handed him a piece of notepaper.

“Hmm. Sunset and three o’clock in the morning?” Monsignor asked with raised eyebrows.

Father Santos whistled.

“Is that bad?” Ms. Laveau asked. Her voice was breathless.

Monsignor placed a hand on her arm and turned her away from the younger priest. “Not at all, Emily. It will be fine.”

Ms. Laveau caught sight of Bridget huddling near the door. The red lips bent into a frown. “I’m sorry, the store is closed.”

“Bridget is with us,” Monsignor said with a nod.