Possess (8 page)

“I want Mommy,” the other twin said.

Bridget inched toward the door, keeping one hand on the wall while she herded the twins with the other. “Leave us alone.”

The black mass shrank into the closet.
“We’ll never leave. Never, never, never.”

Bridget’s hand was on the doorknob. “Let us out of this room.”

“We won’t! We won’t! We won’t!”

“Now!”

With another painful shriek from the voices, the bedroom door swung open. Whoa, they did what she told them to? Amazing. Somehow, she had power over them.

She shepherded the boys through the door. “Get out. Get out of this house.”

“How are you here?”

“We only obey the Master.”

“Her words burn like the white flame.”

Bridget planted her feet on the floor and clenched her fist. “Get out of here!”

The house moaned. The lights in the hallway flickered, and the voices in the walls let out a soul-wrenching wail.

Then all was still.

Ten

B
RIDGET PAUSED.
F
ATHER
S
ANTOS FURIOUSLY
scribbled notes, flipping new pages with mechanical precision. He seemed unaware that she’d stopped talking.

“And how did Monsignor Renault learn of the incident?” he asked without looking up.

“Can’t you ask Monsignor?”

Father Santos still didn’t look at her. “How did he find out?”

Bridget sighed. “Mrs. Ferguson called Monsignor and told him the whole story.”

He glanced in her direction. “I take it they know each other?”

Bridget shrugged. “They’re in the parish.”

“Interesting. And Monsignor never mentioned anything about the Watchers or divine grace?”

Was he serious? “Pretty sure I’d’ve remembered that.”

Father Santos stopped writing and looked at her. “Are you sure?”

Bridget returned his stare. “Someone tells me I’ve been touched by Jesus, I remember.”

“Not Jesus,” he said in all seriousness. “The hand of God.”

Bridget was getting tired of all the Bible talk. “Whatever.”

“No, not whatever. There is a grave difference.” Father Santos bounced to his feet and scurried over to a pile of boxes in the middle of the room. He shifted the top two onto another pile, then drew a set of rosary beads out of his pocket. In a swift, clean motion he made the sign of the cross over the box, then used a sharp corner of the metal crucifix to break the seal on the packing tape, running it down the length of the box.

Well, that’s something you don’t see every day.

As he slipped the rosary back into his pocket, he caught Bridget’s eye.

“Can’t seem to find any of my supplies,” he said, the color rising ever so slightly in his brown face. “You know, any port in a storm and all that.”

Bridget nodded and hoped her face didn’t reflect what her brain was thinking, namely that Father Santos was a whackadoo.

After a few moments digging through the sacrilegiously opened box, Father Santos pulled out a large volume, thick as a dictionary and encased in a crinkly plastic cover. He resumed his seat and placed the book carefully on the desk in front of him. As he flipped open the cover, the stench of damp newspaper wafted upward.

“You are blessed, Bridget Liu,” Father Santos said as he carefully turned the worn, fragile pages.

That was hardly what she would call it.

“You are blessed with an exceedingly rare gift.”

“So I’ve heard,” she said under her breath.

“A divine gift,” he continued. “The touch of the hand of God.”

Bridget fought back a laugh. “Um, sure.”

Father Santos cocked his head. “You don’t believe me.”

“Look, no offense, but that’s not possible.”

“According to the Bible, it’s quite possible.”

“But—” How exactly was she supposed to argue with that? The old “It’s in the Bible” was about as irrefutable as her mom’s “Because I said so, that’s why.” “Look, even if that’s true, it wouldn’t happen to me.”

“Why not?”

“Because God and I aren’t exactly on the best of terms.” Bridget decided not to mention that she’d told God to piss off after her dad’s murder. “If he was making a gift list, I’d be at the bottom. Trust me.”

Father Santos smiled. “I think you underestimate yourself.”

I think you’re out of your freaking mind.

Father Santos found the page he was looking for and swung the book around for her to see. It was an etching of angels exposed to an enormous light, the beams drawn as lightning bolts coming from a central point. Most of the angels looked rapturous, their heads thrown back in ecstasy, arms reaching up to the unseen source of light. But some cowered, clamoring over one another in an attempt to flee the rays, their faces twisted in pain, rage, and fear.

“The divine grace of God,” Father Santos said, his voice lower now, reverential. “Signified by the hand of God.”

“You mean it’s not really his hand?”

Father Santos sighed. “God doesn’t have a hand, Bridget. Or a body. What are they teaching you in Catholic school?”

Bridget narrowed her eyes. “History?”

“Hmph. Divine grace,” Father Santos continued, ignoring her. “It’s not just God’s favor, it’s the spark of life itself. And God has not offered his grace to man directly since the time of Adam.”

“That’s cool and all,” Bridget said, stifling a yawn. She was so ready to blow this taco stand. “But I don’t see what it has to do with me.”

“Well, that’s not a talent most people have, Bridget. Not even an experienced exorcist like Monsignor Renault can communicate with the entities unless they are in possession of a human, and even then, well, they tend to be unreliable.”

“Rule Number Five,” Bridget said.

“Rule Number Five?”

“They lie.”

“Yes, they do. It is their nature to do so. To lie and to take possession of our souls by any means possible. And you, Bridget. You are a great weapon against them.”

Bridget got to her feet. “Look, I’m sure you’re an expert and all, but Monsignor would have told me about all this if it was true.”

Father Santos cleared his throat. “Really?”

Bridget’s face grew hot. She didn’t need to justify Monsignor’s actions to Father Santos. She swung her backpack over her shoulder and headed for the door. “I’m out
of here.”

She didn’t make it halfway across the tiny office before Father Santos grabbed her right hand and spun her around with such force that her backpack whipped off her shoulder and slammed into a bookcase.

“What is this?” Father Santos said. His beady black eyes were trained on her wrist.

“Let me go.” Bridget yanked her arm away, but Father Santos held firm with a strength that surprised her. He drew her arm close to his face.

“Where did you get this?”

What the hell was he doing? Bridget tried to pull away again, but Father Santos only tightened his grip. She could feel her fingers going numb from the pressure. Suddenly, Bridget was painfully aware that (a) no one knew where she was and (b) the only person around the rectory at that hour was the little old church lady working in the kitchen, who probably wouldn’t hear her screams.

“Let me go or . . . I’ll scream.”

“V R S N S M V,” Father Santos said, reading the letters that circled the square cross charm. “Do you know what this is?” His eyes darted back and forth between it and her face; his upper lip glistened with perspiration. He almost looked as if he was frightened. “Do you?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Bridget was officially freaked out. This wasn’t the Father Santos she’d seen so far. His stutter was gone. His absentminded-professor persona had vanished. And as he held her there in his office, his face hardened with suspicion and fear, Monsignor’s warning against the new priest from the Vatican raced through her mind.
Be careful
.

“Well?” Father Santos said, giving her arm a shake.

“It was a gift,” Bridget said. “From my dad.”

Instantly Father Santos released her. “Your dad?”

Bridget rubbed her wrist, easing circulation back into her fingers. “Yeah, it was a First Communion gift from my dad, okay? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Oh. I—I see.” The old Father Santos had returned. He dropped his eyes to the floor and shuffled his feet. “I—I—I’m sorry about that.”

Sorry? Bridget snatched her backpack off the ground and bolted for the door. “Stay away from me.”

Father Santos trotted after her. “Bridget, wait. I—I—I need t-to explain.”

She hauled the door open and stepped into the hallway. “Explain why you practically ripped my arm out of my socket? No, thanks.”

“That’s a little d-dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Whatever.” She turned and headed toward the stairs. She couldn’t wait to get as far away from Father Santos as possible.

“Wait, please!”

Bridget ignored him and flew around the railing and down the stairs. She was already at the front door when he called her name from the upstairs balcony.

“What?” She was going to be so late for class.

“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . to upset you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But I have something that might, er, make it up to you.” Father Santos held up his hand, asking her to wait, then dashed back into his office.

Bridget folded her arms across her chest. Make it up to her? Oh, this should be good.

Father Santos waddled down the stairs and held up a small white envelope, which he placed in Bridget’s hand. “This might help.”

“Help what?”

“Help you deal with . . . everything.”

“I don’t need your help.”

He motioned to the envelope. “Please?”

“Fine.” Why was she humoring him? Bridget flipped the envelope open and pulled out a laminated prayer card. One side had the image of a sword in each of its four corners, with the Latin text of the Prayer of St. Michael, which every St. Michael’s Prep freshman was forced to memorize. The back had a weird picture of an angel, Michael, sword in hand on a rocky island, doing battle with a dragon. Beneath, the words “
Vade Retro Satana”
were printed in a strange, medieval-
looking font.

“St. Michael and the serpent in the battle for Heaven.”

“I know what it is,” Bridget snapped. “Catholic school, remember?”

“Right.” Father Santos’s tone was lighter than it had been since she arrived. “It’s . . . it’s a talisman of sorts. It might help.”

Bridget tossed the envelope into her backpack. “If you say so.” Like a prayer card was going to help her through the nightmare that was her life.

“Just promise me you’ll keep it, okay? Maybe say the words to yourself once in a while?”

The text on the card jumped into her head.
Vade retro satana
. Her fingertips began to tingle. Bridget shook it off. “I’m going to be late for class.”

Father Santos planted his hand against the front door. “Promise you’ll keep it? Please?”

Why did he have such a burr up his butt about this? “Fine.”

“And the bracelet.”

Bridget took a step away from him. “What about it?”

“You wear it all the time?”

“Yep.”

“Good. Promise you won’t take it off.”

“Fine, whatever.” Just let me out of here.

Father Santos opened the rectory door for her and stepped aside. “Good. Good. That’s good enough for now.”

Eleven

B
RIDGET HURRIED DOWN THE STEPS
of the rectory. What just happened? Father Santos’s split personalities spooked her. One minute he’s a stuttering clown, the next a violent psychopath. And then he gave her a gift? Maybe he was off his meds or something.

Almost against her will, the Latin words from the prayer card popped into her head.
Vade retro satana
. Her fingertips tingled again, just a teeny bit, like when you come into a warm room from the bitter cold. She felt lightheaded, giddy, kind of like she’d felt when she laid her hands on Mrs. Long.

Vade retro satana
. The sound of the warning bell drifted across the courtyard, but Bridget barely registered it.

Vade retro satana
. Why couldn’t she get those words out of her head? It was seriously annoying. Like a Lady Gaga song. What did it mean?

Crap. Latin was her worst subject. “
Vade”
from the verb “
vadere
,” to go? Maybe.

Students brushed passed her as they scurried to class, but Bridget didn’t care if she was late to homeroom.

Vade retro satana.
She couldn’t stop saying it, repeating it in her mind. Each time the vibrations in her hands got stronger, spreading up through her arms. The charm on her bracelet vibrated violently against her wrist as if it was absorbing the energy that raced through her body.

She froze and held her arm up before her face. The charm hung there innocently enough, twisting back and forth on its clasp.
“Vade retro satana,”
Bridget said out loud. The charm leaped to life and flapped back and forth several times against her wrist.

The words were linked to her charm bracelet? Kill me.

Okay. Her Latin wasn’t that bad. She could do this.
Vade
. Go. Go where?
Retro
: That was easy. Back or backward. Go backward.

Go backward
satana.

Go back
satana.

Step back
satana.

Step back, Satan.

Step back, Satan. Bridget’s stomach sank. No wonder the phrase had triggered that humming sensation in her body. It was practically an exorcist’s mantra. She didn’t care what Monsignor or Father Santos said, there was definitely something wrong, something unnatural about the way she could communicate with evil. Worse, the way she enjoyed it. The giddy tingling vanished as a new, horrifying thought flooded her mind.

She
liked
the power she had over the demons.

This was so not good.

The hallway was clear as Bridget rounded the corner next to her locker. The last bell must have rung, but she never even heard it. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the combination lock.

“Come on, Bridge,” she said out loud. “Get a grip.”

“Who are you talking to?”

Bridget screamed and spun around to find the slight figure of Peter Kim staring up at her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“What are
you
doing here?”

Bridget returned to her locker. “Getting my books, Peter. Locker equals books.”

“You’re late for class.”

Bridget didn’t like his tone. “Yeah, I know. And you’re making me later.”

“You’re never late for class.”

Bridget slammed her locker door and wheeled on him. “How would you know? What are you, my stalker?”

He didn’t answer, just stood there and stared. Peter held himself rigid, like he’d been injured and was keeping his body in a certain position to minimize the pain. His face was blank and pale. Paler than usual.

“Peter, what’s going on?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“You’re supposed to be in homeroom. Zero tolerance policy for tardiness? Detention, your mortal enemy?”

“I don’t care.”

Bridget’s mouth fell open. Peter Kim didn’t care about detention? Peter Kim? Had the whole world gone mad?

“I need to talk to you,” he repeated.

“Peter, I see you every day. We have homeroom and first period together, for chrissakes.”

She started down the hall toward homeroom, but Peter stepped in front of her, blocking her way. His eyes were hard and flat. “I need to talk to you
alone
.”

She sighed and leaned back against the row of lockers. He’d been acting so weird lately. Well, weirder than normal weird. Like, creepy serial killer weird. How many times did she have to tell him that they were just friends?

“All right, Peter. What? What do you
need
to talk to me about?”

“Are you going to the Winter Formal with Matt Quinn?”

Bridget’s jaw dropped. “What the hell?”

His voice was very calm. “I said, are you—”

“I heard you, Peter. I heard. How did you know about that?”

“It’s true?”

“Well, um . . .” A quick montage of the various times Peter had asked her to the same dance flashed through her mind: at the library, walking to the library, walking home from the library. Flail.

“You lied to me.”

Bridget cringed. “I didn’t lie to you.”

“Liar,” he growled. She’d never heard such rage in his voice before.

Was everyone in her life ganging together to put her on trial? Questions, accusations, apologies—she was sick of it. Bridget covered her eyes with her hand, rubbing her now-throbbing temples with thumb and forefinger. She didn’t need to justify herself to Peter Kim. This wasn’t any of his business.

“Well?” Peter’s voice was a harsh whisper.

“Look,” she said, dropping her hand to her side in a gesture of defeat. “I wasn’t planning on going. Then he asked and I—”

The sight of Peter’s face froze the words of explanation in her mouth. He was red, deep cherry red, and shaking.

“I. Asked. You. First!”

His shout filled the empty hallway, bouncing off the tile floor and metallic lockers before fading to a hollow echo. He took several steps toward her, backing Bridget up against a row of lockers. His lip curled up over his teeth and he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. “You lied to me, Bridget Liu. You lied to me.”

She’d never seen Peter like that. The one constant, the one lovely thing about Peter Kim was that he was as passive as a freaking kitten. She said no, he backed off. That was the pattern.

Bridget pressed her body against the cold lockers, trying to get as far away from Peter as she could. This wasn’t the friend she’d known since she was seven. His features were contorted and his small eyes were black with rage.

“How did you know I was going to the dance with Matt?”

The question seemed to shake him for a moment. His eyes flickered away from her face and the redness drained from his features.

“I, uh . . .” Peter’s voice died away. A spell had been broken. “I don’t remember.”

Bridget sensed the power swing. She shimmied out from between Peter and the lockers. “You don’t remember who told you?”

“Um . . .”

The old Peter was back. Timid, unsure. He wrung his hands in front of him, and his eyes wandered around the hall like he had no idea how he’d gotten there. Poor guy.

“I have to go,” he said. His feet stumbled forward like he was a marionette propelled on strings, pigeon-toed and jerky. “I have to go.”

“Peter?” She couldn’t help feeling like she’d wounded him. She tried to touch him, but he flinched from her hand.

“Leave me alone!” he screamed, then broke into a full sprint and disappeared around the corner toward the gym.

Bridget stared after him. She couldn’t decide which was stranger: Peter’s rage or the fact that he willingly ran into the gym. It was Bizarro Peter.

“Bridget!”

Bridget jumped and turned to find a breathless Monsignor Renault marching down the hall, his heavy, purposeful footsteps filling the void left by Peter’s retreat. “You weren’t in homeroom. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Sorry.” She wondered how much of Peter’s conversation Monsignor had overheard.

Monsignor’s eyes were fixed on the door to the gym. “You’re not usually late for class, are you?”

“Yeah, I was just—” Had he forgotten about her meeting? She decided not to bring it up. The last thing she wanted at the moment was to rehash her unsettling conversation with Father Santos. “I’m just running late today.”

“Hmm,” he said, still gazing over her head.

Bridget was officially so late for class that even her lax homeroom teacher would have to write her up. She cleared her throat and pulled her cell phone out of her backpack to pointedly check the time. “What’s up?”

“Yes,” he said with a shake of his head. “Yes. We have another, eh, situation.”

“Another one?” Three cases of demonic possession in a month? That had to be a record, right? “Isn’t that kind of weird?”

His eyes shone. “Yes!”

“Oh.”

Monsignor clapped her on the shoulder. His hand trembled, and there was a hint of a smile about his mouth. He looked like Sammy on his first trip to the Academy of Sciences.

“We are so lucky to have another opportunity for you.”

Lucky wasn’t the word that came to mind. “Um, yay?”

“We’ll need to get over there as soon as possible. After school today?”

That was going to be a problem. “I can’t. I’m grounded.”

“Grounded?” Disappointment swept across his face.

“Yeah. I’m really sorry. You’ll have to go without me.”

Monsignor threw up his hands. “I cannot go without you. It would be pointless.”

Bridget’s eyes flitted down to her phone again. Fifteen minutes late, and Monsignor just stood there, rubbing his chin in thought while Bridget pictured detentions piling up on top of her grounding. This week was a horror show.

“I’ll talk to your mother.”

Bridget’s eyes grew wide. “My mom?”

“Yes, I’ll call her after school. She teaches at St. Cecilia’s, correct?”

“Um, yeah, but she’s not going to—”

“Perfect. Then we’ll go tomorrow.”

Obviously Monsignor Renault had never dealt with Annie Liu, First Grade Teacher. She wasn’t exactly a pushover. “What if she says no?”

“She won’t.” He patted her head just like her father used to, then turned and walked away with quick, long strides as if he suddenly had someplace very important to be. “Meet me in the rectory parking lot after school tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder.

“No?” she said halfheartedly. But the word fell on an empty hallway. Monsignor Renault was gone.