Possess (16 page)

It should have been awkward, uncomfortable, the worst moment of her life. But it wasn’t. She felt protected, like for once she could let her guard down. She was so proud of being strong, tough, someone who could stand by herself without anyone’s help. But it was exhausting. It felt nice, for once, to give in.

Matt lifted his head from her shoulder, grazing his cheek against hers. His clean-shaven face was soft, and Bridget couldn’t ignore the chill that rocketed down her spine. Matt slipped his arms farther around her waist, wrapping them one over the other as he held her body firmly against his own, gazing into her eyes. Bridget’s breaths were short and her brain was fuzzy. Suddenly she didn’t care if the entire gym was staring at her, she only cared that Matt was holding her, protecting her. And it felt good.

He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. Bridget wasn’t even sure if they were moving to the music anymore. She had a desperate urge to feel Matt’s lips against her own. She stood on her tiptoes, arching her face up to his. . . .

That’s when she heard it.

“Yesssss.”

Twenty-One

B
RIDGET BROKE AWAY.
“D
ID YOU
say something?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Dammit. Not now. Not here.

Matt pulled her face close to his; the warmth of his breath on her face calmed her. “Are you okay, Bridge?”

“I’m fine,” she said hesitantly. “I just thought I heard something.”

Matt put his arms back around her, and they continued to dance. But Bridget felt stiff, on edge, like she was tensing up in expectation of a punch to the gut. That lovely sensation of abandon had vanished.

“Yesssss,”
the voice hissed again.
“It is the hour. We are ready.”

This time Bridget pushed Matt away, her eyes scanning the room, waiting for any sign of the telltale vertigo that usually announced a demonic presence.

The DJ started a bass-thumping Ke$ha remix that set the whole dance floor screaming with glee. Students rushed forward in a dizzying blur of dark and light that made Bridget stagger. Matt caught her arm. “You want to get something to drink?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

They headed to the refreshment table, where Matt ordered them two glasses of sparkling apple cider. Bridget downed hers in one gulp, wishing there was booze in it. If ever she needed a drink, it was now. First the church, now the gym. Demons. Why were they here?

“We are ready!”
There were several voices this time, all speaking in unison. Bridget could feel the demons gathering in strength—like the rhythm of a collective breath heaving in and out—but the atmosphere of the gym hadn’t changed. The temperature hadn’t dropped and the air didn’t have that dense, meaty feeling as if it were thickening with every passing moment. The demons were somewhere close by, but not in the gym.

“Bridget, do you need to sit down?” Matt was staring at Bridget’s hands; they were shaking. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“No, it’s just . . .” It’s just what? I can hear demons in the walls and I’m having a tough time ignoring them, even with your cute, boyish smile?

“Just what?”

“We are ready for the Master! Ready for the Master!”
The voices were shrieking now. A nasty, bone-chilling howl that shook her to the core.
“Slit his throat! Spill his blood for the Master!”

“No!” Bridget yelled out loud.

“Bridge?”

Bridget spun wildly around the gym, a kaleidoscope of streamers and swirling lights, flailing arms and spinning bodies. Another murder. There was about to be another murder, and only she could stop it. All she had to do was figure out where the voices were coming from.

Bridget ran for the back door of the gym into the south courtyard of St. Michael’s Prep. The whole courtyard was awash in strange, dancing lights—blues and greens, reds and purples. Bridget looked up and saw that the stained glass windows of the church looked alive as light flickered and lapped at their panes.

Matt trotted up behind her. “Bridget, what the hell is going on?”

She held up a hand. “Shh!”

“Don’t shush me. Look, I told you I didn’t hear anything.”

“You wouldn’t.” God what was he going to think of her? A complete loony? Shake it off, Bridget. It doesn’t matter. She had to find where the voices were coming from.

“Blood! Blood! Blood! The Master demands blood!”

The church.

She ran for the side door of the church, but Matt grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?”

“The church. Matt, please, you have to let me go. Something terrible is going to happen.”

“In the church?”

“I think someone’s about to be murdered.”

“Murdered?”

“I know you think I’m crazy, but you have to believe me.”

Matt forced a laugh. “Bridge, come on. How could you possibly know—”

A bloodcurdling scream pierced the courtyard.

Without a word Matt and Bridget sprinted toward the church. Matt reached the door first and twisted the handle, but the door was locked. Bridget veered right and made for the door to the sacristy. She yanked it open and ran through the priests’ dressing area, out onto the altar.

“Not enough! Not enough! Not enough hatred! Not enough pain for the Master!”
the voices wailed in agony.

The atmosphere inside the church was heavy and thick. There were hundreds of candles lit, standing all around the altar, like she’d interrupted some kind of ritual. Footsteps echoed through the church, and somewhere near the front entrance, a door opened, sending a gust of wind racing through the sanctuary. It snuffed out the candles and plummeted the church into darkness.

“You have failed. You have failed the Master!”
The demons were losing power, their numbers dwindling with the wispy smoke of the extinguished candles, their voices fading into the darkness.
“Failed, failed, failed, failed, failed.”

The oppressive energy in the church evaporated. The entities were gone, but what had they been talking about? Slit his throat? Spill his blood? Bridget’s eyes had not yet adjusted to the dark, but there had to be someone here, someone in danger. She stepped forward cautiously, arms reaching out in front of her in the blackness. She barely made it three steps before her silver heels slipped in something on the slick marble floor.

A moonbeam streamed through the stained glass window, illuminating a figure on the ground just blow the tabernacle. Lying in a pool of dark, shiny liquid—his throat slit from ear to ear and a twisted look of horror on his face—was Peter Kim.

The next hour was a blur. Bridget felt like she was swimming through a pool of Jell-O. Her limbs were heavy: Simply lifting an arm or putting one foot in front of the other took three times as much strength as usual.

The world slowed down. There had been another scream, that she knew for sure. She was pretty sure the strangled cry came from her own throat, though honestly she couldn’t be sure. She remembered someone’s arm around her waist, pulling her away from the blood-soaked body of her friend. Matt’s arm, probably, though again she was only vaguely aware of it.

Then there had been more people, more screams, more noise. She wasn’t sure how, but Bridget found herself outside in the damp, cold air. The fog had rolled in again, a dense, gooey bank of the stuff that muted the lights of the school, the murmur of voices, the dull thud of feet running to and fro, and the eventual wail of sirens. The fog was appropriate, somehow. The buildings came and went from view with the varying gusts and billows. People seemed to appear from nowhere, then disappear once more. Nothing felt solid, nothing real. Maybe it had all been a dream. Maybe she’d never gone to the dance at all. Maybe.

Arms. She remembered a pair of strong arms around her, keeping everyone at bay, the occasional sharp word to someone who wanted to ask her a question. Then soothing words. “It’s okay, Bridge. It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

Did she think it was her fault? Maybe. Those text messages on her phone. She should have answered him, told him to calm down, told him she wasn’t going on a date, lied to him. How had Peter ended up at the Church of St. Michael? Had he come to spy on her? To confront her and Matt? That anger and rage she’d seen recently—that wasn’t the Peter Kim she knew. What had come over him?

“Shh. It’s not your fault, Bridge. It’s not.”

“Yes, it is,” a voice sobbed. Her voice. “You don’t know. You don’t understand.”

The police arrived, a whole army of them. They scurried through the courtyard, in and out of the church, the gym, and the school like ants on a feeding frenzy. Sergeant Quinn was there. He trembled when he hugged her.

She wanted to sink down onto the ground, curl up in a ball, and cry, but there were detectives who wanted to ask her questions, and Bridget was the only one who could help. Answers to
their
questions, at least, were easy.

“You found the body?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know the victim?”

“Yes.

“His name?”

“Peter Kim.”

“Why did you go into the church?”

“Heard a scream.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Matt had been pulled away for questioning of his own. And Bridget felt naked without his arm around her waist. Still the questions came. Still her voice answered. But she was tired. So tired.

Someone patted her shoulder, and then there was a hand on her arm. Not Matt this time, but it was comforting all the same. Someone had come to rescue her.

“This way, Bridget,” Monsignor Renault said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Twenty-Two

B
RIDGET SHIVERED UNCONTROLLABLY
. H
ER TEETH
chattered and her palms were damp. Beneath the thin, shimmery fabric of her dress, her skin was covered in goose pimples. Only she wasn’t cold. Quite the opposite. As she sat next to Father Santos in Monsignor Renault’s office, she felt as if she were running a fever.

“This is a very serious situation,” Monsignor was saying. Bridget could barely hear him over the chattering of her own teeth. “Very serious.”

Bridget nodded. Her brain couldn’t form a word to save her life.

“The police will conduct a thorough investigation?” Father Santos said.

“Quite,” Monsignor replied.

“They’ll see the pattern, won’t they? This murder and that of Dr. Liu?”

A shock went through Bridget’s body. She thought of Sergeant Quinn as he gripped her by the shoulders and looked her dead in the eye. He’d thought the same thing.

“A copycat killer, in all likelihood,” Monsignor Renault said.

“I doubt they’ll find anything,” Father Santos continued. “Just like last time. No murder weapon, no evidence. Just a corpse.”

Monsignor glanced at Bridget. “Hmm. Um, Father Santos . . .”

“And there will be days of questions. The boy’s body was—”

“Peter,” Bridget said, her voice raspy and coarse. “His name was Peter.”

Father Santos leaned forward in his chair to look Bridget in the face. She didn’t even glance his way, just continued to stare at the Pietà paperweight on Monsignor’s desk.

“I’m sorry,” Father Santos said, leaning back again. “Peter’s body, found in that condition and with the symbols drawn in a circle around his body. There are bound to be questions about the religious implications of such a death.”

“Murder,” Bridget corrected him. They might as well call it what it was.

“Murder,” Father Santos repeated.

“Yes, questions.” Monsignor rested his elbows on his desk and twirled the silver ring absently around his finger. “They won’t find what they are looking for that way.”

“And, of course, Bridget will be their focus.”

Monsignor tilted his head. “I’m sorry?”

“The police. They’ll want to talk to Bridget again. After all, she’s the link between these two murders.”

Bridget stared straight ahead. She was a link between the murders. Of course. Alexa had said it; now Father Santos too. Just like possessions, death followed her.

Monsignor slammed his fist down on the desk. “Father Santos. Bridget is not responsible for these murders, do you understand? And I will not sit here and listen to any suggestion to the contrary.”

“O-o-o-oh, yes. Of . . . of course.” Father Santos wrung his hands in his lap. “I just wanted . . . I mean . . .”

“Bridget,” Monsignor said softly. “Let’s discuss what you saw tonight. If you’re okay to talk about it again.”

It was kind of him to change the subject, and she was eager to tell him what he wanted to know. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Aside from what you told the police, was there anything else you remember?”

“Um . . . ,” she started.

Father Santos shifted in his chair to face Bridget. “Was there anything you heard in the sanctuary? Voices? Sounds? Something familiar, perhaps? Or something that happened before that you might see in a new light now?”

Bridget opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. She was about to tell them about Penemuel when the warning message of the demon dolls popped into her head.
Don’t trust the priest
. She glanced at Monsignor. She wanted to confide in him, but not here. Not in front of Father Santos.

“I know it was quite a shock,” Father Santos continued. He seemed intent on getting some sort of answer out of her. “If you aren’t sure, maybe we should go back and check again? Maybe something in the church will trigger a memory?”

Why was he questioning her?

“I’m sure Bridget would tell us if she heard anything relevant.”

“Yes,” Father Santos said quietly. “I’m sure.”

“Let us recap then, shall we?” Monsignor said. “Bridget must be exhausted, and I’m sure she would prefer to be home with her family.”

Bridget smiled at Monsignor. That was exactly what she wanted.

“We’ve had three instances of demonic infestation in just over a month, and now this murder with apparent satanic overtones. We believe these events are related?”

“Most definitely,” Father Santos said.

Monsignor nodded. “I agree. But we also know that these demons have no physicality unless they are attached to a human body, and even then, to undertake a murder of this magnitude, it would have to be the strongest, most thoroughly acquiescent case of possession I’ve ever seen.”

“True,” Father Santos said.

“So we are left with the reality that a human such as you”—he pointed to Father Santos—“or I has perpetrated this crime.”

“Yes,” Father Santos said quickly. “But it would have to be someone with an intimate knowledge of the benefits of such a murder.”

Bridget turned on him. “Benefits? What’s the benefit of murdering a fifteen-year-old science whiz? What were they going to do, harvest his brain?”

“N-no,” Father Santos said. “I was thinking more of his emotions.”

“What about them?”

“Er.” Father Santos pulled at his collar with his index finger. “You and Peter. I mean, you two. I mean,
he
. . .”

His voice died, but Bridget wasn’t going to make this easy on him. “Yes?”

“He had a very strong attachment to you,” he said at last. “Correct?”

“So what if he did?”

“Ah,” Monsignor said as if he’d just discovered the cure for the common cold. “Of course. The killer was harvesting Peter’s rage.”

Bridget thought of the thirty-seven text messages sitting unanswered on her phone. “His rage?”

“Yes, his anger and jealousy.” Father Santos spoke quickly with obvious excitement. “In some of the medieval grimoires, the process of conjuring a demon and creating a dominance over one involves a great deal of raw emotion. A talented conjuror could summon a lesser demon and hold it prisoner for a short length of time, using raw emotion such as anger or jealousy as a means of controlling the demon.”

Anger and jealousy. The demons in the church had said as much.
“Not enough hatred for the Master.”
Judging by the text messages on her phone, Peter was chock full of enough anger and jealousy to conjure a whole fleet of demons. Was that it? The killer was trying to use Peter’s emotions in some sort of ceremony?

Monsignor rose from his chair and came around to the front of his desk. “I think we have missed something. Some clue as to who our killer is and what he wants.”

Clue? This wasn’t exactly Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with the revolver.

“Bridget, is there anything you overheard, anything you didn’t tell us?”

Why was she hiding anything from Monsignor Renault? Wasn’t he the only person she’d been able to talk to about her new abilities? Hadn’t he spent his time helping her, guiding her, showing her how to banish these demons?

“Do you think,” she began tentatively. “Do you think there’s anyone who can hear the same things I hear?”

Monsignor looked taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“I just was wondering.” Bridget thought of Alexa and how she seemed to hear those voices in the church during choir practice. “I thought, maybe, someone else might have heard what I did.”

Monsignor raised his left eyebrow. “Really? Who?”

Bridget swallowed hard. “Alexa Darlington.”

“No,” Monsignor shook his head. “That’s impossible.”

Was he serious? “It’s impossible for her but not for me?”

“Bridget, the Darlingtons are one of the oldest families in this parish. I’ve known Alexa since she was born. If there was anything out of the ordinary about Alexa, I would have noticed it by now.”

“Oh.” Bridget sighed. Of course he would have noticed. Maybe she’d just been imagining things?

Silence. Monsignor didn’t move, and Bridget felt both his and Father Santos’s eyes on her. They were waiting for her to say something else, but Bridget bit her lips closed.
Don’t trust the priest
. She had nothing to say. Not to them.

“Very well,” Monsignor said.

Bridget slid forward in her chair, sensing that the interview was coming to an end. Her body ached, and as the adrenaline wore off, a chill had settled over her. The goose pimples and chattering were for real now.

“Go home, Bridget,” Monsignor said. “Go home and spend time with your mom and your little brother.”

Sammy. God, how was she going to explain Peter’s death to Sammy? “Yeah.”

“Good.” Monsignor patted her hand. “If you think of anything, remember anything, let me know. Promise?”

Bridget met his eye. She wanted to cry at the thought of keeping a secret from him, but somehow she knew that she needed to tackle Milton Undermeyer on her own.

“Promise,” she lied.

Bridget was numb as she got out of her chair and shuffled toward the door. Her feet hurt from those stupid heels, and her body felt like she’d been hit by a truck. But she barely registered her pain, she was so focused on what she needed to do next. Milton Undermeyer. It was time to talk.

“Bridget!”

Matt was waiting for her, sitting on the rectory steps with Bridget’s clutch purse in his lap. As soon as she came through the door, he scrambled to his feet and rushed toward her.

“Are you okay?”

Matt’s clothes were wrinkled. His sandy blond hair stuck straight up from his head as if he’d been running his hands through it incessantly for the better part of an hour. His tie hung limp and loose on either side of his neck, and his vest flapped open, completely unbuttoned.

“Yeah,” she said, lying for the second time in as many minutes.

They stood for a moment staring at each other. Then Matt’s eyes drifted to her bare, goosefleshy arms. His hands flew to his chest before he remembered that he wasn’t wearing a jacket.

He took her hand and pulled her across the courtyard. “Come on.”

Bridget was too tired to argue. She allowed him to tow her through the damp, frigid courtyard and out to the front of the school. There were three squad cars and a coroner’s van parked out front.

“Hey, Officer Terry,” Matt said, flashing a smile.

“Matt,” Office Terry said. “What are you—” His eyes drifted to Bridget. “The dance?”

“Yeah. Hey, do you have an extra jacket in the squad car?”

“Sure, man.” Officer Terry reached through the open passenger side window and pulled a heavy black jacket off the floor of the squad car. “Anything for a Quinn.”

Matt smiled. “Thanks. I’ll have my dad bring it back tomorrow.”

Officer Terry winked and strode back toward the crime scene. Bridget didn’t watch him go, trying hard to keep the image of Peter’s mangled body out of her mind.

“Better?” Matt said, draping the coat around her shoulders. The thing practically reached her knees and it reeked of stale cigarettes, but it was warm.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Bridget,” Matt started. She could tell by the sound of his voice—all deep and parental—that something weighed on his mind. “Bridget, what’s going on?”

“How would I know?” Wow, who knew lying could be so easy once you got the hang of it?

“I don’t . . . I mean.” He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. The long bits in the front hung vertical for a moment, then flopped over his forehead. “Look, I’m sorry about your friend and all, but how did you know? How did you know there’d be a murder?”

Bridget dropped her eyes to the ground. How was she supposed to explain this?

“I heard you with Detective Paulson. You didn’t tell her about the voices you heard.”

Bridget tried to look like she had no idea what he was talking about.

“Please, I saw you. In the gym, in the courtyard. You heard . . . something.”

“Something” didn’t even begin to cover it.

“And then you got hauled into Monsignor’s office with that other priest. Those were the ones you were with after school on Thursday, right?

Bridget nodded. She was so tired of keeping secrets. She felt hopeless and powerless against the misery around her. Her dad was dead. Peter was dead. Bridget was the link between them, and Matt was slowly putting the pieces together. There was just no point in denying any of it.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well, what?”

“Well, it’s . . . weird.”

Bridget pulled the police jacket up over her ears. Weird was an understatement.

Matt waited, no doubt hoping Bridget would chime in and save him from whatever bizarre ideas were running through his mind, but she just didn’t have the energy to do it. He reached out and found her fingertips with his own, grazing against them lightly before pulling his hand away.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that, well, I know you don’t like me very much, but if you want to talk or you need anything . . . anything at all.”

Need anything? There was one thing she needed desperately.

“Take me to Geyserville tomorrow,” she blurted out.

“Huh?”

“You said what do I need? I need to go to Geyserville.”

Matt cocked his head. “Why?”

She needed to say it, to trust someone, anyone with her secret. He might not have been her first choice, but at that moment Bridget needed to trust Matt Quinn.

“I need you to take me to Sonoma State Hospital. To see Milton Undermeyer.”

Matt’s eyes grew wide as he realized exactly what she was asking. It wasn’t just a quaint Sunday drive into the wine country; she was asking him to take her to see the man who had killed her dad.

“Please,” she said softly.

Matt looked her straight in the eye as if he were searching for some reason to say yes. He must have found it. “I’ll pick you up at ten.”