“I can’t help you, Mr. Undermeyer, unless you help me. Tell me why you were in the Church of St. Michael. Tell what this message is you—”
A knock at the door.
“Come in,” Dr. Liu said.
“Sorry to disturb you, Dr. Liu.” Bridget knew that voice.
“No problem, Hugh. Is there something I can do for you?”
A shriek maxed out the treble on the record, and Bridget scrambled to turn down the volume. “Not safe!” Undermeyer screamed. “Not safe! Not safe! Not safe!”
The recording went silent.
It made perfect sense that her dad had hidden the duplicate files and the secret recordings, both of which exposed his abilities as a Watcher. Bridget almost laughed at the thought of Sergeant Quinn going over those materials. Would he have thought her dad was crazy? Probably. It’s what Bridget would have thought herself if she didn’t, unfortunately, know better.
“Contacting J from OSM for further instructions.” Who the hell was that? A company? A religious organization? Whoever “J from OSM” was, her dad obviously had contact with him long before Undermeyer arrived on his doorstep. The OSM must be involved somehow with the Watchers.
Bridget hopped out of bed and shuffled down the hall to get a soda. She was wide awake now, antsy and anxious to find answers to new questions.
She pulled a can of Diet 7Up out of the fridge and popped it open. J from OSM. That was the key to the mystery. She had to figure out who or what it was. But how? She needed a database devoted to this kind of stuff . . .
She stopped midsip. Father Santos. Father Santos had a personal library in his office “borrowed” straight from the Vatican. That was as good as it got, right? The freaking Vatican library? Father Santos would let her look for whatever she wanted.
Don’t trust the priest. The words came back to her like a punch in the chest. She didn’t know who “the priest” was yet, but whoever he was, he was working for the Emim, working to raise Amaymon from the legions of Hell. Could it be Father Santos? Bridget laughed as she pictured the clumsy, stuttering Father Santos in league with the Emim.
Still, there was something about Father Santos she didn’t like and didn’t trust. The freak-out over her bracelet, for starters. At the doll shop, he “forgot” to finish securing the room by laying salt across the front door. Could it have been on purpose? And he was the one who suggested she directly engage the demons, inciting the doll riot. Was it intentional? Was he trying to get her killed?
Bridget trudged back to her room. No, she couldn’t risk it, couldn’t risk trusting anyone at this point. If she wanted to get a look in Father Santos’s office, she’d have to do it on her own.
Her cell phone ring snapped Bridget back to reality. “Douchebag Quinn” was the incoming caller.
“Hello?”
“Is everything okay?” Matt asked.
“Matt.” Bridget could barely keep her voice even. “I found it.”
“You found it?”
“Yeah.” She decided to leave out the part about the dead phantom cat. “There was a loose floorboard in the corner of my dad’s study.”
“Holy crap!”
“I know.”
Matt dropped his voice. “What does it say?”
“It’s kind of complicated. What time do you get out of practice?”
“You’re home?”
“Yeah, I can hang out until—”
“I’ll be there in fifteen.”
“Wait, Matt. You don’t have to . . . Hello?” Nothing. Had he really just hung up on her?
Somehow, she wasn’t really mad.
Bridget pulled a brush through her hair and applied some lip gloss. For the first time in her life, she actually cared what she looked like. It was a new experience to say the least.
The doorbell rang exactly thirteen minutes later, and Bridget tried to look casual as she opened the door.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.” Matt was breathless. Had he run all the way from Riordan? “Are you okay?”
Bridget smiled. Matt’s hyperprotectiveness was growing on her. “Yeah.”
Without thinking, she reached her hand out to him. The instant her fingers touched his, that God-awful tingling sensation raced up her hands through her body. She yanked her hand away.
“Bridge?” Matt looked stricken. She couldn’t bear to see his pain and confusion, knowing she was the cause. Besides, she wanted to touch him so badly, to feel him protecting her from the things neither of them understood, to feel his lips pressed against hers, his arms pulling her to his body, to feel that delicious heat, that intoxicating energy flowing through her again.
She didn’t care what it meant.
Bridget took a step toward him, holding the gaze of those hazel eyes. It must have been the invitation Matt was hoping for. He grabbed her hand and pulled her to him, wrapping his other arm around her waist. His kiss was gentle, but Bridget didn’t want gentle. She wanted to feel those tiny explosions of pleasure racing up and down her body.
She kissed him hard, her tongue finding his as she pressed her body into him. The energy tore through her. It pulsed up her arms, down her legs, across her chest. She slipped a hand under Matt’s shirt and ran her fingers over the taut muscles of his stomach. She heard him moan softly as her hand trailed down the front of his body. He belonged to her. Matt, this power, this feeling. They all belonged to her.
“Wait,” Bridget said, breaking away. This wasn’t why he was here.
“Wait?” he gasped.
Bridget put a hand on Matt’s chest. His heart was racing, racing for her.
Focus! “Right, sorry.”
Matt cocked his head to the side. “Huh?”
“Look, I need to do something, something that could get me in a lot of trouble.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Bridget rolled her eyes. “I mean it. And I don’t want you to help me just because . . . well, because . . .” Her voice faltered.
Matt laced his fingers through hers. “Because of the way I feel about you?”
“Yeah.”
Matt took a step closer to her. “I’m here for you, whatever you need.”
Bridget held her hands up in front of her. “I’m talking about breaking and entering.”
“Again, why am I not surprised?”
“Damn,” Bridget said, pursing her lips. “You and your dad must really think I’m a total fuckup.”
“Partial,” Matt said with a sly grin. “Partial fuckup. But seriously, I’m in.”
“You sure?”
“Totally.”
Bridget couldn’t help but feel relieved. She would have busted into Father Santos’s office alone if she had to, but the idea of having Matt with her made the whole endeavor significantly less terrifying.
A soft beep came from Matt’s pocket, and he dug down for his cell phone. “I’ve got practice in thirty. What time should I pick you up?”
Bridget wasn’t sure what kind of cloak-and-dagger insanity she’d need to pull to get out of the house, but she’d think of something. “Eleven. Park down the street, though. I’ll have to sneak out.”
“Okay.” He bent down and kissed her swiftly. “I’ll see you then.”
Thirty-Two
MATT CROUCHED IN THE SHADOWS, fiddling with the lock to the back door of St. Michael’s Rectory. The air glowed a dull blue-gray as the beam from Bridget’s flashlight dissipated into the thick, low-lying fog. She shivered and tucked her free hand into the pocket of her jacket.
“I thought you’d be better at this.”
“Why?”
Bridget shrugged. “’Cause your dad’s a cop.”
“Right,” Matt said, shifting his body so he wasn’t blocking the light. “Why wouldn’t he teach me Breaking and Entering 101?”
Bridget stifled a yawn. “Might be helpful now.”
“Patience, grasshopper.” Matt inserted a second metal prong into the lock. “I know a few tricks.”
Bridget heard a soft click, and Matt raised his eyebrows in an unspoken “I told you so” before twisting the handle. The door swung open.
“Slick, MacGyver,” Bridget whispered, patting him on the head. “Remind me to give you a cookie.”
Matt’s face was serious. “You know where to go?”
Bridget nodded. He was right: enough with the crap, time to get what they came for.
They stepped into the rectory, and Matt pulled the door shut behind them, throwing the room into darkness. Bridget panned her flashlight: cupboards, butcher block table, stove. They were in the kitchen.
There was an open door on the far side of the room, and Bridget motioned for Matt to follow her. From the carpeted hallway, Bridget knew exactly where they were. Father Santos’s office was on the second floor, third door from the end of the hall, just above the kitchen.
They crept up the staircase. Bridget tested her weight on each step before fully committing. The priests, including Father Santos and Monsignor Renault, would be asleep on the top floor and hopefully wouldn’t hear the odd squeak or creak from the old rectory, but how the hell would she explain herself if the lights suddenly came on?
Her hand trembled so violently the flashlight beam shook. She wasn’t so much concerned about herself as she was about Matt. What if this little stunt got him suspended? Ruined his pitching career? Made him hate her forever?
Bridget paused at the door of Father Santos’s office. Hopefully, Matt wouldn’t have to repeat his perp skills in busting a lock. She held her breath and turned the doorknob.
The door opened easily, noiselessly. Bridget and Matt dashed inside and eased the door closed.
“I’m not exactly sure what we’re looking for,” Bridget whispered. “But Father Santos probably has his books arranged—”
Bridget froze as the beams of their flashlights illuminated the office. It looked like an earthquake had hit. Books were pulled down from every shelf, strewn about the small room haphazardly. The chairs were overturned and Father Santos’s desk had been toppled over, the contents of his drawers spilled onto the floor.
“Oh my God,” Bridget said.
“Someone got here before us,” Matt said. “Someone else had the same idea.”
“That’s impossible.”
“No, it’s not. What did Undermeyer tell you? The Emim are trying to raise some demon king, right?”
“Amaymon, thanks for listening.”
Matt shone his light right in her face. “Hey, you threw a lot of info at me that day.”
“You mean yesterday?”
“Oh, yeah.” Matt swung his beam back into the upturned office. “Still, my point is, maybe the Emim or the priest working with them are looking for the same thing we are?”
“Maybe.”
Bridget scanned the chaos of Father Santos’s office. Every bookcase had been emptied onto the floor, creating a minefield of splayed books. Even if she knew what to look for, it would be impossible to find anything. Her beam moved past the cupboard behind the overturned desk, then zipped back to it. The door of the cupboard was open.
Bridget picked her way through the mess. “If you had something important, wouldn’t you keep it locked up?”
“Probably. Hey, maybe we should just talk to Father Santos.”
She gave him a look of disbelief. “Don’t trust the priest, remember?”
“Yeah, but someone obviously broke in here. Wouldn’t that mean Father Santos is on our side?”
She examined the cupboard. One of the doors stood wide open, the other was still locked. Neither showed signs of having been forced.
“Not necessarily,” she said. “Look, this cupboard was opened with a key.”
Matt stumbled through the carnage and peered down at the door. “Okay, fine. Someone used a key. But if they knew what they were looking for, why destroy the room?”
That situation had already crossed Bridget’s mind. “To make it look like someone broke in. Father Santos could easily have done this himself to make it seem like he’d been robbed.”
“But why?”
“To gain my trust, maybe?” It sort of made sense.
“I guess.” Matt was clearly unconvinced. “What’s in here, anyway?”
Bridget illuminated the contents of the cupboard. The wooden box was still there, unopened and unmolested; whoever had broken in clearly hadn’t been interested in the Skellig Manuscript. The only other object was a set of books on the middle shelf, six leather-encased volumes, one of which appeared to be missing.
She clamped the end of the flashlight in her teeth and pulled the set of books out of the cupboard. The volumes weren’t huge, maybe two hundred pages each, but the set weighed a ton.
“A widdle hewp,” Bridget said through the flashlight.
Matt grabbed the books and eased them down on the side of the toppled desk. “See, I knew you’d need my help.”
Bridget pulled the flashlight out of her mouth. “Oh, Matt, you’re so big and strong. My hero.”
“Your hero, huh?” Matt hooked a finger through a belt loop on her jeans and pulled her to him. “I’m going to remind you of that one day.”
Bridget’s heart fluttered as their bodies pressed lightly together. She had to fight the urge to reach her lips up to his. With a shake of her head, she turned back to the box on the table.
There was a label on the side of it. “Les Grimoires des Rois L’Enfer,” Bridget read awkwardly. “Oh, please tell me you speak French.”
“Sorry,” Matt said. “Spanish.”
“Perfect. And I took Latin.”
“Dead languages are so helpful. Any idea what it means?”
A voice answered them from across the room. “The Grimoires of the Kings of Hell.”
Thirty-Three
BRIDGET DROPPED HER FLASHLIGHT. At first she thought it was a demon answering her from the darkness of the room, but then she saw the figure—the human figure—silhouetted in the doorway. It reached a chubby hand to the wall and flicked on the lights.
Father Santos’s jaw dropped. “What in the name of G-God did you do to my office?”
Bridget looked sidelong at Matt. “It was like this when we got here, Father Santos. I swear.”
“Are you s-sure?” Father Santos stepped into his office and closed the door behind him. He scratched his neck nervously as his eyes danced around the room.
Bridget snorted. “Pretty sure.”
“Hmm.” Father Santos bent down and began picking up books off the floor, examining their pages and spines, and stacking them on a nearby shelf.
Matt turned to Bridget and inclined his head toward Father Santos. “What the hell?” he mouthed.
“Um, Father Santos?” Bridget asked.
Father Santos didn’t even look at her. “Yes, Bridget?”
“Any idea who would want to break into your office?”
“Besides you two?”
“Look, Matt only came because I asked him to. I don’t want him to get in trouble.”
“Actually, Father,” Matt said. “It was my idea. Bridget was just trying to help.”
“What are you doing?” Bridget whispered.
“Keeping you out of trouble,” Matt said between clenched teeth.
Bridget set her jaw. “I don’t need your help.”
“Really? It doesn’t seem that way.”
“Um,” Father Santos said. He was staring at them now, as if he were watching a pair of chimpanzees at the zoo. “Can you two save the b-bickering for later? We have more important matters at hand.”
Bridget clammed up. She was keenly aware of how calm and patient Father Santos had been. No anger, no indignation. He wasn’t calling the police or waking up the rest of the rectory. He just stood there, book in each hand, blocking the door, serenely shifting his gaze between Bridget and Matt.
They were so screwed.
“First off, I’d like you to tell me what you’re doing in my office in the middle of the night.”
&n
bsp; Yeah, that would be first. Was there any plausible answer other than that they had broken in to steal something?
“Right,” Father Santos said, interpreting their silence. “So you came here to find something. Do you even know what you were looking for?”
Bridget shook her head. At least that was the truth.
“And you found my office in this state, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Any idea what they were looking for?”
Bridget glanced down at the volume of grimoires balanced on the side of the desk. “There’s a volume missing.”
“From Les Grimoires des Rois L’Enfer?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Hey,” Matt said. He took a step forward so he was slightly in front of Bridget. “What are you going to do with us?”
Father Santos pulled his head back. “Do with you?”
“Yeah.”
It took Father Santos a few seconds to realize what Matt was implying, then a look of utter surprise spread across his face. “You think I’m . . . I mean, that this . . .” His lips continued to form words but no sound came out. Father Santos shook his head in frustration, then stomped his foot on the floor. “Bridget,” he said, his lips tight and drawn. “I think it’s time you trusted me.”
That’s when Bridget lost it.
“Why should I trust you? I hardly know you, and since you showed up my whole life has turned inside out.”
“Your life wasn’t exactly p-perfect before I arrived.”
Bridget scowled. “See, that doesn’t help.”
“Sorry. But still, you need to trust me.”
“Trust you? Give me one good reason.”
Father Santos sighed, long and low. “Because your father did.”
Bridget’s voice caught in her throat. “How did you know my dad?”
“Take one of the volumes out of that set,” Father Santos said, pointing at the grimoires.
“What?”
“Please.”
“Fine.” Bridget pulled out the first volume. It was thin but solid, with thick, gilt-edged pages.
“Open the cover and read the inscription.”
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