Bridget scowled but did what he asked. “‘Property of Father Juan Santos, Order of Saint Michael.’”
“What does that have to do with Dr. Liu?” Matt asked.
Bridget gasped. “Oh my God. J of the OSM. Juan Santos of the Order of St. Michael. It was you!”
Father Santos inclined his head. “Yes.”
“You knew my dad was a Watcher.”
“Yes.”
Matt grabbed her arm. “Bridget, what are you talking about?”
She turned to him and laughed, a wave of relief passing through her. “It was in my dad’s notes, the ones I found in his study. He was waiting for instructions from someone—J of the OSM—when he was killed.”
“The Order of St. Michael,” Father Santos said.
Matt wasn’t buying it yet. “Who?”
“The Order of St. Michael.” Father Santos spoke quickly, with a fanatic’s gleam in his eye. “An ancient order founded in the eighth century, after Michael the Archangel appeared to St. Aubert at Mont Saint-Michel. An order of warrior priests—”
“Warrior priests?” Matt said with a raised eyebrow.
Father Santos jutted out his chin. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
Matt cast a glance at Father Santos’s pudgy form. “Whatever you say.”
“The Order of St. Michael is an order of the Vatican,” Father Santos continued. He was obviously proud of his affiliation. “Entrusted with the task of protecting what is left of the Watchers.”
“Including my dad.”
Father Santos nodded. “Yes. Your father and a handful of other Watchers we’ve been able to make contact with over the centuries.”
“There are more of us?”
“Oh, yes, but as I told you before, no one I’ve met whose abilities are as developed as yours.”
“So you knew all this time what Bridget was?” Matt asked. He sounded less than impressed.
“I explained it to her.”
“But left out the part about her dad.”
Father Santos shrugged. “I was trying to protect her, just as you are now.”
“Hey, guys, I’m in the room, remember?” Bridget was so tired of people trying to shelter her she was ready to scream. “And I don’t need either of you standing over my shoulder, okay?”
Father Santos nodded. “Fair enough.”
“Good. Now just tell me what’s going on.”
“All right.” Father Santos clapped his hands together. “Let’s start with the missing grimoire and work backward from there, shall we?”
With careful steps, making sure he didn’t so much as nudge one of the books strewn across the floor, Father Santos made his way to the set of grimoires. He didn’t touch them, merely bent at the waist and peered down.
“Bael, Paymon, Beleth, Gaap . . .” His voice trailed off, but his lips continued to articulate unspoken words as he ticked through the volumes. Then, with a start, he straightened up. “Oh my.”
“What?” Bridget asked.
Father Santos paced in a tight circle. “My, my, my.”
“What?” Bridget and Matt said together.
Father Santos turned to Bridget, his face draining of color. “Amaymon.”
“Amaymon? That’s the missing volume?”
Father Santos nodded. “The demon master from Mrs. Long’s exorcism.”
Matt leaned in to look at the grimoires. “Is that the demon king Undermeyer told you about?”
Father Santos’s eyes practically popped out of his head. “What? What?”
“Oh, right.” Bridget bit her lip. “You didn’t know about that.”
“You spoke with Milton Undermeyer?”
“Um, yeah. Yesterday.”
“And?”
Bridget’s eyes flicked toward Matt with an unspoken question: Can we trust him? Matt’s brows drew together. He was clearly thrown by the odd, fumbly little figure of Father Santos. It took a moment before Matt slowly nodded.
Father Santos scratched absently at his neck. Her dad trusted this guy. Bizarre as it seemed. He was on their side. Time to take the plunge.
“Don’t trust the priest. Those nonsense lines you gave me from the doll shop? It was an anagram for ‘Don’t trust the priest.’ And Mrs. Long, she basically said it too, told me not to trust either of you.”
Father Santos plopped down on the edge of the desk. “I see.”
“And after what happened, I figured it meant you.”
“W-what happened?”
“Yeah. You know. First you freaked out about my charm bracelet, then you didn’t finish securing the door of the doll shop with salt. It seemed like you were trying to work against us.”
Father Santos smiled wanly. “I was trying to protect you. I thought the doll shop might be a trap, and I was trying to leave a means of escape.”
“Oh.” Bridget hadn’t thought of that. “And the bracelet?”
“A St. Benedict’s medal without the image of St. Benedict? You don’t understand how rare that is. It serves a very . . . specific purpose.”
“An exorcist’s amulet,” Bridget said, clasping the charm between her fingers.
“Er, yes. Sort of.” Father Santos hurried on. “What else have you kept from me??”
“I went to see Mr. Undermeyer, and he gave me the same message he gave my dad. That the Emim were using a priest—a priest wielding a sword—to try and raise Amaymon, to give him a human form so he could stay in our world and, well, I don’t know. Do whatever it is demons do.”
“Cause rampant destruction and suffering,” Father Santos muttered.
“I guess.”
“Shit,” Matt said.
“Indeed.” Father Santos started to stand up, then sat back down again. Then, after a pause, he leaped to his feet. “Indeed. It all makes sense!”
“It does?”
“Absolutely. It’s funny, really.”
Bridget didn’t see the humor in any of this. “You’re kidding, right?”
Father Santos cleared his throat. “Oh, yes, I see what you mean. Catholic doctrine is just b-blown to bits, isn’t it? It completely destroys the belief that fallen angels can think only of evil if they are attempting to warn us about . . . about one of their own.”
“Um, that’s not what I meant at all.”
Father Santos angled his head, surprised that Bridget wasn’t thinking about Catholic doctrine.
Matt slapped his forehead. “Tell us how it all makes sense.” Even his infinite patience was failing the Father Santos endurance test.
“Oh, yes, of . . . of course,” Father Santos twittered. He rolled back on the desk and lifted a volume from the set of grimoires. “The rise in infestations and possessions. Undermeyer breaking into the church. Your father’s murder. It all makes sense now.”
“Dude,” Matt said. “No, it doesn’t.”
“Of course it does.” Father Santos flipped through the volume. “You just haven’t been paying attention.”
The confused look on Matt’s face begged Bridget for some sort of explanation, but all she could do was shrug. She was as lost as he was.
Father Santos popped up off the desk. “Ah ha! Here it is. Listen. ‘Le sorcier peut gagner la dominance au-dessus de Beleth seulement à condition qu’il reste dans le cercle du—’”
“Um, Father Santos?” Bridget interrupted.
“Wait,” he said turning the page. “This gets really interesting.”
“Father Santos, we don’t speak French.”
“French?” He examined the book to see if there was something wrong about it, then laughed nervously. “Ah, yes, yes, of course. So sorry. Let me translate.”
“Is this guy for real?” Matt muttered.
Bridget poked him in the chest. “I would like to remind you that trusting him was your idea.”
“Thanks.”
Father Santos cleared his throat. “The conjuror may summon Beleth—that’s another of the kings of Hell,” he interposed by way of explanation, “by the ri
tual of blood. This ritual must take place on holy ground that has been rededicated to the Master—that would be Satan—with a relic of the old regime—those would be the archangels.”
Something stirred in Bridget’s mind. A relic of an archangel, holy ground that didn’t exactly feel holy.
“The conjuror may hold dominance over Beleth only as long as he remains with the ring of silver affixed to the third finger of his left hand.”
Bridget’s fingernails dug into the soft flesh of her palm. “A silver ring?” The words almost choked her.
Father Santos lowered the book. He was no longer smiling. “Yes, a silver ring.”
“Like the one Monsignor wears.”
“Exactly like that.”
A priest wielding a sword. The hungry way Monsignor had questioned her about Amaymon. His avoidance of all Bridget’s questions. He’d even been scheduled to meet with her father on the day of his death.
Matt’s hand was around her waist before Bridget even realized she’d lost her balance. “Bridge, are you okay?”
“I’m so sorry, Bridget,” Father Santos said. His voice was calm, and he spoke slowly, as if she were a child. “I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure.”
“But he taught me. He taught me what I was, how to do whatever it is I do.”
Matt eased her into a chair and crouched down next to her while he questioned Father Santos. “Are you saying that Monsignor Renault is responsible for all this?”
Just like the son of a cop. He had to have it in black and white.
“If the Emim have been attempting to conjure Amaymon, it explains the rise in demonic activity recently,” Father Santos said. “Remember, Bridget, I told you how a demon must be invited in? I’ve been looking into things. Monsignor Renault administered last rites to Mrs. Long when she was in the hospital with pneumonia, just last month. And Ms. Laveau’s father is an old friend of Monsignor’s. She has him over for dinner at the apartment above the shop once a month.”
“And he blessed the Fergusons’ house when they moved in this summer,” Bridget said mechanically. Her mouth felt dry and parched. “That’s why Mrs. Ferguson called him after what happened.”
Father Santos nodded. “All perfect opportunities to perform a ritual or introduce a curse.”
Bridget’s head spun. “But why? Why summon all these demons?”
Father Santos shrugged. “Practice. Conjuring a king of Hell isn’t like placing a simple curse. I’d guess he was working his way up to attempting the ritual.”
“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
BRIDGET 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 s
houlders 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
FATHER SANTOS 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.
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