“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.
Twelve
JUST WHEN BRIDGET WAS SURE her day couldn’t get any worse, she found Sammy and Matt Quinn sitting on the front steps of her house after school.
“Really?” Bridget made no attempt to hide her exasperation. “Are you following me everywhere I go now?”
“Calm down,” Matt said, pushing himself to his feet. “Just bringing Sammy home.”
Bridget eyed her brother, who was working on a word puzzle at the top of the stairs. “Is everything okay?”
“He’s fine. He didn’t want to practice today. Kept going on about coming home to see the cat.”
“Perfect.”
“Yeah, your mom seemed to have the same reaction. What’s wrong with the cat?”
Other than that he’s dead and apparently haunting my bedroom closet? “Nothing,” Bridget said, starting up the stairs. “We don’t have a cat.”
“Bridge!” Sammy squealed, clambering to his feet. “Is it time to see Mr. Moppet now? Is it?”
Matt laughed. “You sure about that?”
“Er . . .” Bridget changed the subject. “Thanks for bringing Sammy home.”
“No problem.” Matt followed her up the steps.
“Don’t you have practice to go to or something?”
“Not till four.”
Kill me. He was expecting her to invite him in, wasn’t he? She fumbled with her latchkey. “Um, I’d invite you in, but—”
“Your mom said it was fine if I hung out for a little while.”
Gee, thanks, Mom. “Oh. Great.”
Sammy pushed passed her as soon as she opened the door and sprinted down the hallway to his room. “Mr. Moppet! Time to play.”
“You know, you could look a little more excited to see me,” Matt said.
“What are we, best friends?”
Matt shrugged. “We used to be.”
Low blow.
“Don’t you remember, we used to play hide-and-seek downstairs? But I’d only have, like, a minute to find you because you were so scared of the spiders in the garage you’d pop out of your hiding place and give up.”
“I was six. I don’t give up as easily now.”
Matt grinned at her. “I know. That’s one of the things I like about you.”
“One of the things?”
He smiled, pushed open the kitchen door, and sauntered to the refrigerator. “What does a guy have to do to get a glass of water around here?”
Bridget sighed and pulled a glass out of the cupboard. “Promise you’ll be out of here in five minutes?”
“Deal.” He grabbed the Brita pitcher and poured himself a glass. “If you still want me to.”
“Four minutes, fifty-three seconds.”
Sammy ran back down the hall. “Mr. Moppet? Bridge, I can’t find him. Can I go downstairs and look?”
Bridget shook her head. Yes, Sammy. Please keep bringing up the dead cat in front of Matt. “Sure, Sammy. Just be careful of the spiders.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Matt smiling. “Shut it,” she said, before he could remind her of her phobia.
“I didn’t say a thing.”
Bridget sat down, rested an elbow on the table, and cradled her head in her hand. Matt sipped his glass of water, watching her carefully.
“You look tired,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“Bad day?”
Let’s see, she’d gotten assaulted by both a priest and one of her oldest friends, and then found out she was going to have to perform another exorcism. “You could say that.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
The question should have annoyed her, but it didn’t. “No. Thanks, though.”
“Is it about the dance?”
“The what?”
“The Winter Formal. Are you upset because we’re going?”
It was so far from what was actually worrying her, Bridget laughed out loud.
Matt set his glass down on the counter. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Sorry.” With some effort, Bridget got herself under control. “Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting that.”
Matt sat down next to her. “But something is bothering you, right?”
Sammy’s muted voice drifted up from the garage. “Mr. Moppet, where are you?”
Bridget sighed. She wished it was just “something” bothering her rather than the nightmare she was up to her neck in. “I’m okay.”
“You can talk to me, you know. If you want.”
Bridget closed her eyes. Not about this, Matt. Sorry.
“I know it’s important for you to be tough. I totally respect that. But you used to trust me, you know.”
“It’s not that,” she said, opening her eyes. “It’s just—”
“I mean, I know we didn’t see each other for a long time, but I’m still the same seven-year-old who used to protect you from spiders.”
Bridget laughed softly. “This isn’t as easy as killing spiders.”
Matt bent his head close to hers. “So there is something? I knew it.”
Bridget opened her mouth. For a moment, she was tempted. Tempted to spill everything that had happened to her that day, that week, everything since the night at the Fergusons’. It would have been so easy.
“I want to help. I want to be there if you need someone.” He smiled slightly, just enough to make her breath catch in her throat. “I want you to let me in.”
Bridget looked into those soft hazel eyes. “Matt, I—”
“Bridge!” Sammy burst into the kitchen. “Bridge, I can’t find him.”
Bridget straightened up. “What?”
“Mr. Moppet. Help me, Bridget. Help me find him.”
Matt got to his feet. The moment was gone. “I should go.”
“Right.” Bridget stood mechanically and followed him to the door. “Um, thanks. You know, for bringing Sammy home and everything.”
Matt opened the door, turned around, and smiled. “My off
er still stands. If you want to talk, I’m here.”
“I’ll remember.” Don’t hold your breath.
Matt stood there for a moment. He made a move like he was about to hug her. But then he thought better of it and stepped outside. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
“So how is school?” Her mom’s voice sounded far away.
“Fine.”
“Classes are okay?” The words were muted and fleeting.
“Yeah.”
Bridget hardly noticed the dripping dishes she took from the dish rack, hardly remembered swiping her towel over them before stacking them on the counter.
“Bridget?”
Bridget blinked. “What?”
“I said, I heard you’re going to the Winter Formal.”
Her mom smiled; less of an “oh, isn’t it sweet my baby girl’s going to a school dance” smile and more of an “it’s about friggin’ time, I was beginning to think she was antisocial” kind of smile.
“How did you know?” It was a stupid question. There could be only one answer.
“Well, Matt was so excited. When he said you’d invited him, he could hardly—”
“Wait, Matt said I invited him?”
Her mom tilted her head. “Didn’t you?”
“Hell no!”
“Watch your mouth, Bridget Liu.”
“Sorry.” Bridget was thankful her mom didn’t hear half the colorful pirate talk that came out of her mouth on a daily basis.
Her mom lifted the slow cooker into the sink, added a squirt of liquid soap, and filled it with water. “It’s your school dance. If you didn’t invite him, then how are you two going together?”
That was the million dollar question, now wasn’t it? “Um, it’s a long story.”
“It’s this Saturday, right?”
“I guess.” Bridget wasn’t even sure.
“Did you want to ask me something? About being grounded?”
Bridget smiled as a wonderful realization dawned on her: She couldn’t possibly go the Winter Formal because she was still grounded.
Her mom winked. “It’s okay. You can go to the dance.”
Bridget’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“Well, of course you can, Bridget.” Her mom was clearly confused by Bridget’s lack of enthusiasm. “As long as you’re going with Matt Quinn.”
“Oh.” Great, perfect. Typical that Bridget got the mom who actually wanted her daughter to go to the dance even though she was grounded, not the hardass who kept Bridget home to “make a point.”
Bridget would have preferred the hardass.
Her mom shut the water off with unnecessary force. “Bridget, what is going on with you?”
Uh-oh. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? Please, do you think I’m completely stupid?”
“Um . . .” Loaded question.
“You’ve been drifting through life for the past few weeks,” her mom said. “Lost in your thoughts, barely paying attention. It’s not like you at all.”
The stress that had been building up in Bridget’s world snapped. “Not like me?” she said, tossing the dishrag onto the counter. “How would you even know what I’m like?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You have no idea what’s going on with me. I could be growing weed in the basement and you wouldn’t even notice.”
Her mom narrowed her eyes. “I’d notice if you were growing drugs in the house, Bridget.”
“Oh, yeah? When you’re not at work you’re coddling Sammy like he’s still attached at the umbilical cord.”
“Sammy needs—”
“Sammy’s fine, Mom. He’s eight and he’s way more independent than you think, okay?”
Her mom’s face clouded over. “Don’t tell me what Sammy is or isn’t.”
Bridget clamped her mouth closed. She’d gone too far. “Well, even when you’re home, you’re not here. You’re with one of them.”
Her mom’s freckled Irish skin flushed pink. “With whom?”
“Oh, come off it, Mom. Dad hasn’t even been dead a year, and you’re already splitting your free time between Mr. Darlington and Sergeant Quinn?” She threw up her hands. “It’s messed up.”
Her mom clenched her fists. “Don’t you dare.” There was a quiver in her voice, but Bridget was over it.
“Did you even ask where Monsignor Renault wants to take me after school tomorrow?”
A wave of horror washed over her mom’s face.
Bridget held her hand up in front of her. “Oh, God, it’s not that. I could handle that, Mom.”
“I figured you’d tell me if you wanted.”
“Right. ’Cause us teenagers, we’re so big on sharing.”
Her mom sighed. “All right, Bridget. Where are you going with Monsignor Renault after school tomorrow?”
Bridget rolled her eyes. Yeah, like now was the time to bring that up. “It doesn’t matter. Just don’t pretend like we’re buddy-buddy, okay? Because we’re not.”
“Bridget—”
Bridget turned on her heel and stomped out of the kitchen. “Go call one of your boyfriends,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m sure they’ll have wonderful advice on how to deal with me.”
Bridget slammed her bedroom door as hard as she could. Her dad had removed the lock when she was a kid, but Bridget was relatively sure that her mom would leave her alone. It was easier to “give Bridget her space” than to confront the demon of her temper head-on.
Demon. Crappy choice of words. This whole exorcism business had seeped into the core of her soul, affecting every thought she had, every aspect of her life. A cat she couldn’t see, the empty stare in Peter’s eyes, demonic possessions around every corner. And then there were Father Santos’s theory and his obsession with her bracelet.
Bridget slumped to the floor and rested her head against the bed. There was a logical explanation for all of it. There had to be.
She held up her right arm and watched as the dangling square cross on her bracelet twisted back and forth. The once-sharp edges were dulled with wear and the raised scrollwork was not quite as defined as it had been when she first put it on. But the lettering, as Father Santos had shown, was clearly legible. Two bars crossed in the middle, with the letters C S P B in each of its quadrants, all encompassed by a circle of letters that had never made any sense.
What had Father Santos read? She peered at the charm and read the letters out loud, clockwise. “V R S N S M V.”
Beneath her fingers, the charm jumped.
That damn charm! Bridget pulled her laptop out from under her bed and fired it up. It had to be connected to what was happening to her. Either that, or her body had suddenly gone magnetic. She strummed her fingers impatiently on her leg as she waited for the internet portal to load, then typed each of the letters from the charm in order.
V R S N S M V—S M Q L I V B
Google didn’t fail her. Bridget had an answer within seconds.
“The St. Benedict medal?” she read from an encyclopedia entry. “A Catholic emblem dating back to the fifteenth century, used by laypeople to protect against spirits, witchcraft, and other diabolical influences.” She scanned the entry and found an illustration of a typical St. Benedict medal: on the front, the image of the saint in question holding a cross in one hand and a book in the other; on the back, the same lettering Bridget had on her charm.
Huh. How come her charm only had one side?
She continued to read. “The lettering remained a mystery until a manuscript was discovered at Metten Abbey in Bavaria in 1647. The letters were found to correspond to the Vade retro satana prayer.”
As if to punctuate that statement, her charm shuddered.
Vade retro satana. Again? It was a prayer?
Vade retro satana
Numquam suade mihi vana
Sunt mala quae libas
Ipse venana bibas.
The passage was helpfully translated:
Step back, Satan
/> Never tempt me with vain things
What you offer me is evil
You drink the poison yourself.
So her father had given her an exorcist’s good-luck charm when she was seven, a charm that had caught Father Santos so off guard he’d promptly lost his cool, a charm that moved by itself when its prayer was read out loud.
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.
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