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 flitte
d 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.
“Watcher,” Amaymon snarled. “Your time is over.”
Before she could respond, Sammy bent at the waist, gripped the front pew, and with a crackle of splintering wood, ripped it from its foundations.
“Move!” Father Santos yelled. He pulled her down the aisle. “Move, move, m—”
Sammy lifted the pew over his head like it was a cardboard box and, with a heave, sent the entire thing flying in their direction.
Father Santos pushed Bridget into the aisle, then dove after her. Her broken ribs cracked again as she slammed into the kneeler, and her ankle wrenched in agony. The pew missed Father Santos’s head by inches, landing two rows behind them.
The angels in the stained glass windows erupted in cheers and shouts as Father Santos scrambled to his feet, hauling Bridget after him. “Come on.”
“There is no escape, slave,” Amaymon said. “There is no escape from my house.”
Bridget stumbled after Father Santos, down toward the back corner of the church. The pain from her ribs and twisted ankle were blending together so that every movement, every breath brought renewed agony. Just when she thought she couldn’t take another step, Father Santos threw open the confessional and dragged Bridget inside.
“NO ESCAPE!” Amaymon roared. He grunted as the sound of cracking wood echoed overhead. Then, with a heave, another pew came flying through the air and crashed through the crying room window.
Bridget propped herself up with one arm, the other wrapped tightly around her rib cage. “Please tell me,” she said between gasping breaths, “that you have a plan.”
Father Santos peeked through the confessional window. “Other than fleeing for our lives? No.”
Bridget’s breaths came shorter and shorter. She was light-headed from the shallow panting, and the pain had spread from her chest down to her hips and up through her shoulders.
Another roar. Another splintering of wood as the demon king possessing Sammy’s body ripped a pew out of the floor and heaved it across the church like it was made of Styrofoam. This time it crashed into the wall right above the confessional door, sending Father Santos ducking for cover as the tiny room reverberated from the impact.
“The Master is strong! The Watcher will perish!”
“This is hopeless,” Bridget said.
Father Santos shook dust from his hair. “Bridget, listen to me.”
“What?” In her final moments on the planet, she rather relished the idea of wallowing in her own misery.
“Look, I know—” He crouched down before her, cradling his knees in his arms. “I know you’re hiding something.”
“Huh?”
“I’ve been watching you. At Mrs. Long’s, at the doll shop. You were holding something back, something that bothered you.”
Bridget sat bolt upright.
“I’ve seen other Watchers banish demons, and there’s something, a feeling, an energy, that overtakes them. Whatever it is, you’ve been fighting it.”
He knew? “You’ve seen it before?”
“Yes.”
Bridget bit her lip. There were others like her, others who had felt the strange burning in their bodies, the tingling deep within. Maybe even her dad? Maybe he’d felt the same thing? Accepted the same thing?
“Bridget, in about thirty seconds we’re both going to die. If there was ever a time for you to come to terms with your destiny, this would be it.”
He said it like it was easy, like taking a stroll down the street or ordering a latte at Starbucks. Come to terms with your destiny, Bridget. It only means you’re part demon.
“Emerge, slave,” Amaymon roared. He was right outside the confessional.
Father Santos scrambled to his feet and took a quick glance out the window. He turned back to her and spoke quickly. “I have a plan, but it will only succeed if you’re strong, Bridget. Stronger than you’ve ever been.”
“Give up the Watcher to me,” Amaymon continued. “And I will spare your life, priest.”
Father Santos grasped her hand. “Amaymon is not at full strength. I interrupted the conjuration when I scattered your brother’s blood, but it’s only a matter of time before Monsignor rearticulates the symbols to complete the process. And then your brother will be lost forever.”
“I lose patience, slave,” Amaymon snarled. “I shall crush your bones to dust if you disobey me.”
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