Possess (23 page)

“Peter.”

“Yes. But it didn’t work. Even Peter’s rage wasn’t strong enough. Which is why I told you to be careful. To keep the bracelet on and to learn the mantra on the card.”

Matt shot to his feet. “Why would Bridget need to be careful?”

Father Santos angled his head. “Don’t you see? He needs a vessel, someone strong enough to hold a demon. No human is stronger than a Watcher. I thought he might come after you.”

Monsignor needed a Watcher for the ritual. Bridget caught her breath. “Sammy!”

Thirty-Four

B
RIDGET SPRINTED DOWN THE HALL
to Monsignor’s office and threw herself against the door. Locked. Without thinking she reared back, cocked her knee, and kicked the door with all her strength. She wasn’t sure if she actually expected it to give way, but with a crackling of timbers around the frame, the door to Monsignor Renault’s office flew open.

“Bridget!” Matt bounded after her. “What are you doing?”

There was no time for explanations. Bridget knew exactly what she needed to find. She whisked the Pietà paperweight off the desk with one hand, then, crouching low behind the desk, she pushed up and out with her legs, tipping the heavy rosewood desk onto its side.

Tiffany lamp and plastic desk accessories crashed to the floor, but Bridget’s eyes were fixed on the underside of the desk—the drawer Monsignor kept locked at all times, his private notebook stored within.

With a fierce swing of the Pietá, Bridget ripped into the flimsy wooden base of the drawer, punching a hole straight through. She flung the paperweight away and tore open the bottom of the drawer with her hands, the cheap wood splintering as she pulled half the panel away.

Father Santos jogged up behind Matt. “Wow,” he panted.

Bridget thrust her hand into the drawer, searching frantically for the notebook. Monsignor wrote everything down—every note, every thought, every comment. If Father Santos was right, if Monsignor was in league with the Emim, the evidence would be here.

Her fingertips grazed a soft leather surface. “Yes!”

“What?” Matt asked. He was at her side in two strides. “What is it?”

Bridget twisted her arm and yanked a black notebook out of the underbelly of Monsignor’s desk.

“Monsignor’s diary,” Father Santos said.

Bridget flipped to the back of the book and scanned for the last entry.

“‘If I’d only known Santos had the grimoire all along,’” Bridget read aloud. “‘No matter. The conjuration is almost ready. The girl would be too difficult, but perhaps the boy?’”

“Dear God,” Father Santos gasped. He lifted the notebook from her hand.

Bridget’s hands shook.
The boy
. It had to be Sammy.

“NO!” she cried. Bridget fumbled in her pocket for her cell phone. She had to warn her mom.

Matt was a step ahead of her. “Yes, I’d like to report a kidnapping,” he said, cell phone at his ear. “My name is Matt Quinn. My father is Sergeant Stephen Quinn, Central Station, and I need units to report to two four two six Ulloa.”

Bridget’s feet were rooted to the floor as her trembling fingers hit the autodial button on her cell phone. The home phone rang three times and went to voice mail. Her mom never let it get past two.

“Bridget.” Father Santos’s face was hard, and his eyes were keenly focused on her. “Bridget, if Monsignor has your brother, we don’t have much time.”

“Dad?” Matt said into his phone. “Dad, you need to get to Mrs. Liu’s house right away. Look, I can’t explain but something’s wrong, okay? No, I’m with Bridget. We’re down at St. Michael’s.”

“Bridget, are you listening to me?”

Her eyes drifted back to Father Santos. She noticed his knuckles turning white as his fingers gripped Monsignor’s journal.

“The police won’t be able to do anything if Monsignor has already started the ritual of blood. You are the only one who can save your brother.”

Matt shoved his cell phone back in his pocket. “We’re not going anywhere until my dad gets here.”

“What do you mean?” Bridget asked Father Santos. She’d never seen him so calm, so focused. His stutter was gone entirely, and he’d lost most of his fumbliness.

“I mean if the ritual works, once Monsignor begins the conjuration, once Sammy’s blood mixes with the essence of Amaymon and the demon begins to take form, the police won’t be able to stop it.”

“What will happen to Sammy?”

Father Santos shook his head. “I’m not sure, but if Amaymon isn’t banished, your brother will die.”

“But you don’t even know where they are,” Matt said. “They could be doing this ritual anywhere.”

“A relic of the archangels,” Bridget muttered. “The sword of St. Michael.”

“Yes,” Father Santos whispered.

“And a church claimed by demons.”

“St. Michael’s,” Father Santos said with a nod. “It’s one of the reasons the Order of St. Michael asked your father to move into this district. We’ve always suspected that this church was built for a special purpose.”

Bridget’s eyes drifted to the three portraits of archangels that hung on the wall. Raphael, Gabriel, and Michael. Michael, the leader of God’s army. Michael, whose sword hung in the church below. Michael, the patron of the Order of St. Michael, her protectors. Michael fighting the serpent on the rock.
Vade retro satana
.

Matt grabbed her shoulders and spun her around to face him. “Bridge, you can’t be serious. If Monsignor Renault really killed your dad and your friend, he’s dangerous. Like, homicidal. We should wait for the police.”

“If you wait here, your brother will die.”

“She’s not going with you,” Matt said through clenched teeth.

Father Santos ignored him, turning to Bridget. “You can save your brother.”

“What if I can’t?” Bridget stuttered. Panic welled up inside her. Never before had the stakes of a banishment been so high. And so personal. “What if I don’t know how to save him?”

Father Santos smiled, restoring some of the goofiness to his face. “It’s who you are, Bridget. You just have to accept it.”

Bridget stared at her feet while Matt’s grip on her shoulders tightened. It would be so much easier just to stay in the rectory, to let Matt take control and wait in his arms until the police arrived. But she knew in her heart that Father Santos was right, and if Sammy died it would be on her head.

She looked into Matt’s eyes and wanted to cry. “Matt—”

“No,” he said. “I won’t let you. You’re staying here with—”

He never got the last word out. There was a flash of movement behind him—a blur of white and black just above Matt’s head. Matt stood stunned for a split second, then crumpled to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” Father Santos said, dropping the Pietà paperweight next to Matt’s limp body. “But we were running out of time.” He knelt down and examined Matt’s head. “He’ll be fine. Just a nasty lump tomorrow.”

“You didn’t have to knock him out.”

Father Santos laughed. “Yeah, right. He cares for you too much to let you confront your dad’s murderer with a strange priest in the middle of the night.” He was serious again in an instant. “Are you ready?”

“Not really.”

“Good. Then let’s go save your brother, okay?”

Thirty-Five

F
ATHER
S
ANTOS WAS MORE AGILE
than he looked. Bridget had been half afraid he’d trip over his own feet going down the rectory stairs and topple ass over elbows into a broken mess on the landing. But in a stroke of surrealness not seen outside a VH1 reality show, Father Santos careened down the stairs like a Navy SEAL in boot camp and was ten strides ahead of Bridget by the time she reached the courtyard.

Maybe he was a warrior priest, after all.

There was a strange but familiar dance of lights in the St. Michael’s courtyard. Bridget glanced up and saw a menacing collage of red and blue, green and gold lapping at the cobbled stone and masonry of the courtyard. Peter’s murder scene flashed before her eyes: the sea of candles around the altar, the strange circle of figures and symbols, the body splayed within.

Only this time, the body would be Sammy’s.

Father Santos sprinted for the door of the sacristy, whipping out a key and unlocking the priests’ entrance without so much as a click of the bolt.

Bridget followed him into the church, but as soon as she stepped inside, it felt like she was passing through a wall of cobwebs, thick and sticky, clinging to her skin like a lattice of Silly String. She scraped her hands against her arms and face, but there was nothing touching her, just the sensation of hatred and malevolence weighing her down. Evil had attached itself to her, seeping through her skin.

“Bridget,” Father Santos whispered. His fingers dug into her arms, and Bridget realized he was holding her up, preventing her from collapsing.

Bridget felt like she was drowning in the darkness. “I can’t,” she panted. “I can’t.”

“Vade retro satana,”
he said under his breath. “Say it.”

“Vade,”
she said. That was all she could remember.

“Retro,”
he prompted.

“Retro satana.”

Her St. Benedict medal lurched, and the darkness retreated.

“The motto of the Watchers,” he whispered. “Why do you think I gave it to you?”

“Oh.” Would have been nice if he’d mentioned that before.

Her head cleared. She felt herself again, strong legs, strong mind. Bridget took a deep breath. Time to find Sammy.

A doorless arch separated the priests’ dressing area from the church altar. Bridget flattened herself against the wall and peered around the archway.

It was a scene she’d expected to see, a scene she had witnessed before. The church was awash in candlelight, black and white sticks of wax mounted in every sconce and on every surface around the altar. She could just make out the scribbles of symbols in a rough circle, and in the middle stood a small figure with hair sticking every which way, silhouetted against the candlelight.

“Where’s the ice cream?” Sammy asked Monsignor. He wore his Justice League pajamas, rolled at the ankle because he was short for his age. “You said there’d be ice cream.”

Monsignor crouched in the shadows behind Sammy. He held a sack in his hands from which he poured a stream of black sand, articulating the symbols in the circle. “Soon, Sammy. Very soon.”

“Is Mr. Darlington bringing the ice cream? Is that where he went?”

Bridget frowned. Mr. Darlington? Had he been at their house that night?

“This stinks,” Sammy said when Monsignor didn’t respond. He sat down in the middle of the circle and rested his chin in his hands.

“If you sit there quietly for another minute,” Monsignor said, straightening up. “I’ll give you a surprise.”

Sammy perked up. “Really?”

“Oh, yes.” Monsignor dropped the sack and stepped behind the altar.

“Good, because I—” Sammy paused, then cocked his head as if he heard something. “Bridge?”

Bridget caught her breath. How could Sammy know she was there?

Monsignor reached behind the altar and retrieved a large object. “What did you say?”

Sammy turned to look at him. “I didn’t know you brought Bridget here too.”

Even in the dim light of the church, Bridget could see Monsignor’s face harden. He didn’t wait to question her brother but grabbed Sammy and hauled him to his feet.

“In the name of Amaymon,” Monsignor bellowed. He lifted Sammy up by his wrists so his toes barely touched the ground. “In the name of the king of the west, the wielder of the silver ring.”

Sammy kicked with his legs, struggling to free himself. “Lemme go!”

“In the place of the Master, I spill this blood for you!”

Bridget’s eye caught a glimmer as candlelight flickered off something metallic in Monsignor’s grasp. There was no doubt in her mind what he held: the sword of St. Michael.

Faster than Bridget could react, Monsignor drew the blade across Sammy’s arms.

“No!” Bridget screamed, rushing from the shelter of the sacristy.

“Bridget, wait!” Father Santos hissed.

Bridget sprinted toward Sammy, who stood frozen in the middle of the circle. Monsignor spun around as her footsteps echoed through the church, but he made no move to stop her. Instead he stepped out of the circle and let Bridget blow past him. Why would he—

The air was sucked out of Bridget’s lungs as she slammed into something hard and impenetrable at the edge of the circle. Her forehead smacked against an unseen wall, knocking her back as the rest of her body careened into the invisible barrier. There was a sickening crack, followed by a blinding flash of light. She hardly felt the impact against the frigid marble altar, only felt its coldness against the searing pain spreading outward from her chest.

A gravelly laugh reverberated through the sanctuary. “Always so hot-blooded,” Monsignor said with a click of his tongue. “That’s from your mother, I believe.”

Bridget rolled onto her side and coughed, trying to catch her breath. Pain shot through her ribs. Her vision blurred and she gasped for air.

“Your father would have been more cautious. Of course, that’s what got him killed.”

Bridget forced her eyes open. She couldn’t make out Monsignor’s features, with the exception of his eyes: They glowed a deep orange against the darkness of the church. She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.

“You’re too late, anyway.” Monsignor pointed to her brother. “The conjuration has begun.”

Bridget propped herself up and gazed at her brother. It was Sammy, but it wasn’t.

His eyes were entirely black. Ugly, empty pits of darkness where Sammy’s dark brown irises used to be. He seemed larger; not taller or fatter, but as if he occupied more space than her little brother usually did. His shoulders were broad, his head thrown back, his palms turned upward as if he were supporting the weight of the church in his hands.

Then she saw the blood. It dripped from Sammy’s wrists where two ugly gashes marred his flesh. His blood undulated, rippled, and spread through the arcs and lines of the circle like it had an intelligence all its own. Once the blood filled every crevice, completing its circular bond, it raced faster and faster through the maze of symbols until Bridget could hardly see the movement at all.

“You can come out now, Santos,” Monsignor called.

Father Santos shuffled forward from the shadows of the sacristy. “We know all about your c-connection to the Emim, Renault.”

Monsignor laughed. “If that were true, they’d have sent a real member of the order to deal with me, instead of the librarian.”

“You’re a librarian?” Bridget sputtered, finding her voice. Perfect. She glanced at Sammy, the blood still oozing from his body. Time was running out, and here she was facing a homicidal priest and a demon king, and all the Vatican had sent her was a librarian?

“Did he tell you he was one of the legendary warriors of the Order of St. Michael?” Monsignor sneered. “Look at him. Did you really think
he
could protect you?”

“W-w-well,” Father Santos stuttered. “I—I . . . I mean. I’m not really. I mean, I am but I’m not. And I—I know a . . . a lot about . . . things.”

They were completely screwed.

“The conjuring has begun,” Monsignor repeated. He looked pointedly at Bridget. “You cannot stop it now. The circle of Amaymon will prevent even a Watcher from entering its domain.”

Father Santos cleared his throat. Bridget looked up and saw him wiggling his fingers and jutting out his chin, trying to get her attention. His eyes flitted toward the sword, which lay discarded near the front of the altar, then back to Bridget. He gave a slight nod of the head, and Bridget realized what he was after. He was going for the sword, and he needed Bridget to keep Monsignor distracted.

Distracted. Okay . . .

“My dad,” she began, grasping at straws. “My dad knew what you were.”

“Your father consulted me on the Undermeyer case. He thought he was so clever. Asked me to give the man a blessing.” Monsignor smiled. “As if I would fall for that.”

“Fall for what?”

“His little trap. He guessed the janitor had broken into the church to steal the sword before I could use it.” Monsignor pointed at her. “Your father hoped that if he put Undermeyer face-to-face with me, he’d be able to figure out why the sword was so important.”

Bridget gritted her teeth. “You killed him.”

“Of course I killed him. The Emim have the power to obscure the minds of men. With their help, I outsmarted your father, that fool of a police sergeant, all of you.”

She wanted to throw herself on him, tear at his face with her fingernails, strangle him with her bare hands. She tried to stand, but the pain in her cracked ribs shot through her body. She stumbled into the altar and clung to it to keep from sinking to her knees.

A movement from above caught her eye. The stained glass windows were moving. Not a trick of the eye from the quivering light of a hundred candles, but moving of their own accord. The angels, those menacing, nightmarish angels with their empty eyes and blood-tipped swords, had come to life.

“To the Master!”
they cried, dozens of swords lifted to the heavens. She could hear the clattering of steel as the stained glass angels clamored around their panes.
“The Watchers will perish. The Watchers will perish.”

“By the ritual of blood I will conjure Amaymon.” Monsignor spun around, addressing the angels in the windows. “In this holy place, built by the Emim, built for the Master. I shall use the archangel’s sword against him. The Master will rise and I will take my place at his right hand, his beloved servant.”

The church, built by the Emim. The sword, used to raise a demon king. It made sense, all of it. Except for one thing.

“Why did you train me?” Bridget asked. It didn’t really matter, but after all they’d been through together, Bridget needed to know. “Why teach me how to use my powers?”

Monsignor laughed. “Once your father was out of the way, I had a clear path before me to conjure the Master. Until that call from Mrs. Ferguson. I needed to know for sure what you were, what I might be up against.”

“Up against?”

“How powerful you were as a Watcher. And you
are
powerful, Bridget. Too powerful. I originally planned to use you for the conjuration, but thankfully—” He glanced at Sammy, and the ugly curl of his lip returned. “Thankfully, there is another Watcher in the Liu family.”

Bridget turned her face away, appalled she’d never before seen Monsignor for what he was, ashamed at her own bad judgment. What an idiot she’d been.

Sammy’s body lurched. In the circle, the blood had reversed its course. Instead of pouring out of his body, it was now crawling up his feet and legs, back to the slashes in his arms. The blood was flowing back into Sammy’s body.

“Ah,” Monsignor said, following her eye to Sammy. “Very soon, now. Very soon we shall—”

In a blur of movement, Father Santos kicked the sword and sent it sliding into the center of the circle. As it careened across the marble floor, it cut a swath through the symbols, scattering the blood in its wake.

“No!” Monsignor raced into the circle, but the damage had already been done. Sammy slumped back on his heels, teetered like a drunken man, then crumpled to the ground amid the remnants of blood.

“Bridget,” Father Santos yelled. “Run!”

Bridget pushed off from the altar and staggered toward the limp body of her little brother. Monsignor was already at Sammy’s side, rolling him over onto his back.

“Master,” he cried. “Master, speak to me.”

“Sammy,” Bridget mumbled. The pain in her ribs burst fresh through her, but she had to get Sammy away from that murderer. Had to.

Father Santos gripped her wrist and pulled her down the stairs into the sanctuary. “Move. Now.”

A monstrous gust of wind raced through the sanctuary from the front of the church, extinguishing all of the candles. Bridget and Father Santos froze halfway down the aisle as a deafening growl shook the stone floor beneath their feet.

Moonlight filtered in through the stained glass windows. In the near darkness, Bridget could hear Monsignor’s choking sobs. His voice cracked. “Master?”

“Sammy?” Bridget whispered.

A voice like nails on a chalkboard answered. “No.”

Another blast of air rushed through the church, down one wall, around the back and up the other side. In its wake, the candles reignited and shadows emerged, dancing along the walls of the church—erect, menacing figures at once human and animal, their bodies darting and racing around Bridget and Father Santos. The angels in the stained glass windows began to dance and jabber, the words at first strange and foreign as they were shouted forth from all corners of the church at random, but as the words came together into a demonic chant, Bridget could clearly make them out:

“Amaymon, Master. The Master is here!”

“That can’t be good,” Bridget said.

“Master,” Monsignor said, his voice raw with crying. Bridget could see him now, kneeling by the altar. “Master, you are not at full strength.”

“I am strong enough,” Amaymon said through Sammy’s body. “For them.”

Sammy stood at the front of the church. He pointed directly at her.