It was like they thought she was some sort of delinquent. “Don’t you guys ever get grounded?”
A look of horror spread across Peter’s face. The mere concept of being grounded by Mr. and Mrs. Kim was paramount to public flogging. Brad shook his head, mouth full of turkey and canned cranberry sauce, but Hector was
smiling.
Bridget knew exactly what he was thinking. “Getting sent to Catholic school because your parents think it’ll beat the gay out of you doesn’t count as getting grounded.”
“Please,” Hector said. “That’s the ultimate grounding.”
Peter cleared his throat. “Um, Bridge, why did you get grounded this time?”
“Duh,” Hector said. “She had a hot date with Matt Quinn.”
Peter’s eyes grew wide. “But you said . . .” His lower lip trembled.
“Dude, no, she didn’t,” Brad interrupted. “I was at Riordan Prep for a scrimmage yesterday and Quinn was practicing with the varsity team.”
Hector’s jaw dropped. “YOU STOOD HIM UP?”
Bridget threw up her hands. “There was no date!”
Hector ignored her and pointed at Brad. “Maybe he was trying to throw you off by pretending to practice.”
Brad smiled and played along. “She could have been in his truck the whole time . . .”
“In his truck?” Poor Peter. Now they were just torturing him.
“. . . taking a break from sucking face!” Hector finished. “That’s totally what happened.”
Brad and Hector fist bumped while Bridget shook her head. “You guys need therapy, you know that?”
She felt Peter stiffen. “Bridget, were you really with Matt—”
“Hey, Kim,” Brad said, tactfully changing the subject. “What did you mean about the history paper?”
Bridget could have kissed him.
“Huh?” Peter asked.
“You said not to worry about the history paper.”
Peter grudgingly turned his attention from the Archbishop Riordan Prep varsity baseball team and Matt Quinn. “Right. Mr. Singh took a leave of absence. We have a new history teacher.”
“What?” Bridget said. “From Monday to Tuesday he needs a sabbatical?”
“Yanno,” Hector said. “You’d think he’d have the decency not to assign that hot mess of a paper if he was going to bail on us.”
Brad shrugged. “Oh, well. At least I don’t have to explain why I’m not turning it in.” He gathered up his tray and nodded at Peter. “We still on for tutoring tonight?”
“Yeah,” Peter said. “But if it’s after practice, you’ll have to come to my house. My mom won’t drive in the dark.”
Hector bit his lip so hard trying to suppress a laugh, he practically drew blood.
“No, worries, dude.” Brad stood up. “For help with algebra, I’ll take it.”
“I’m sure Peter can help you pass algebra this time,” Hector said. Bridget caught a faint tinge of pink in his cheeks. Hector might have been able to hide his crush on Brad from everyone else on the planet, but not from her.
“Let’s hope,” Brad said with a grin. “Catch you guys later.”
“Bye, Brad,” Hector said with a wistful sigh as Brad’s tall, lanky form sauntered away and disappeared into the lunchroom crowd.
“Why does he hang out with us again?” Bridget asked.
“Other than the fact that Peter keeps him from flunking math?”
“Yeah.”
“Probably your hag factor.”
Oh, yes, Hector’s favorite topic of conversation: Brad’s closeted gayness. Of course Hector was the only one who actually thought Brad was gay. Not that it stopped him.
“It’s the only reason I can think of to explain hottie Brad hanging out with us social lepers,” Hector continued.
“Hottie Brad?” Bridget teased. “I thought you told me he wasn’t your type?”
Hector flushed. “Yeah. He’s, um, totally not.”
Bridget realized she’d hit a little close to home. Time to change the subject.
“So who’s the gaysian of the week?”
Hector glanced up at her from beneath his heavy fringe of eyelashes and grinned. “Ah, there was a gorgeous barista at the Grind this weekend. I think I’m in love.”
“You’re always in love,” Peter said.
Hector smirked. “So are you.”
Bridget picked up her bag and tray before the subject of Matt Quinn could be resurrected. “Come on, Hector. Don’t want to be late for the new history teacher.”
All Bridget could think about as she and Hector threaded their way through the hallway was Matt Quinn.
How many times had she told him she didn’t need a guardian angel? But try as she might, she just couldn’t shake her old childhood playmate. Sometimes she wasn’t even sure that she wanted to. It didn’t help that he was so kind to Sammy. Bridget was grateful for anything Matt could do to help keep her little brother from getting picked on at school. The thought of Matt teaching Sammy to play baseball made her smile.
Then he’d do something annoying, like get her grounded, and she was over him.
Matt’s dad had been the referring officer in the Undermeyer case that landed in her dad’s office. Sergeant Quinn thought Undermeyer, the St. Michael’s facilities manager and a suspect in a breaking-and-entering case at the parish, was a certifiable whack job, and he’d asked Dr. Liu to give a professional opinion. Two of them had entered her dad’s office at Hugh Darlington’s Fallen Angels Clinic that afternoon—Dr. Liu and Milton Undermeyer—but only one walked back out. There were no witnesses, and the audiotape Dr. Liu had been running during the session had mysteriously clicked off just five minutes in.
Sergeant Quinn threw himself into the murder investigation. There was no weapon, and no suspect other than the straitjacketed Undermeyer, who managed to get off with an insanity plea. Since that day, Sergeant Quinn had elected and inaugurated himself protector-in-chief of the Liu
family.
Bridget was pretty sure that her mom’s hotness didn’t hurt.
Matt had followed in Sergeant Daddy’s footsteps. She remembered him at the funeral, his light hazel eyes fixed on her from the other side of her father’s open grave. She hadn’t seen him since they were kids, but his eyes held all the sadness Bridget felt, as if he was suffering her anguish right along with her.
Bridget had felt sick during the whole funeral, but there at the grave site, she thought she was going to pass out. Matt had walked around the grave and stood beside her, quiet and calm. He reached out and took her hand, and in that moment Bridget wanted to cry, to let all the pain and anger pour out while Matt held her.
Then Sergeant Quinn had come up beside them. Her mom collapsed into his arms and wept uncontrollably while Sergeant Quinn stood strong and sturdy, stroking her mom’s hair. Bridget saw in Sergeant Quinn the same thing she saw in Hugh Darlington: They wanted to replace her dad.
After that she had hardened herself against Matt. Sure they’d played together when they were kids, but they’d lost touch after Matt went to live with his mom. And now that he was back, he was different. Matt Quinn, star pitcher for Riordan Prep’s varsity baseball team, was Mr. Popularity. Mr. Perfect. They had nothing in common.
No, that wasn’t quite true. She and Matt did have one thing in common: Alexa. Matt had dated her most of last year. And Bridget hated her with the intensity of a thousand burning suns.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Huh?”
Hector darted in front of her and stopped dead, hands folded across his chest. “Did you hear anything I said?”
Bridget took a wild guess. “Asian barista, should you ask him out or not?”
Hector’s eyes narrowed as he fell back into step beside her. “Lucky guess.”
“I was totally listening.”
“Sure you were. Thinking about Matt Quinn?”
Bridget tried to control the hot flush spreading across her face. Damn half
-Irish blood. “Don’t be stupid.”
Hector opened the door to room sixty-six. “Whatever.”
Bridget brushed past him and stomped to her desk, dropping her bag on the floor. The new teacher wasn’t there yet, but the room was all atwitter about Mr. Singh and his replacement. Bridget didn’t care. She felt tired and old and completely disinterested in the goings-on at St. Michael’s Prep. She folded her hands across her desk and sank her forehead on top of them.
“G-good afternoon, class,” a familiar voice said from the front of the room. “I’m your new history teacher.”
Bridget’s head shot up, and she found herself staring at Father Santos.
It wasn’t until the bell rang that Bridget realized a whole hour had slipped by.
“B-Bridget,” Father Santos called from the whiteboard as students filed out of the room. “Um, Bridget Liu, can . . . can I see you for a moment?”
“What the hell did you do?” Hector whispered. “Fall asleep?”
“I’ll catch up with you after school,” she said, waving Hector off. She didn’t want any witnesses.
“Bridget,” Father Santos began once the room was empty. “I was wondering if I might have a chat with you after school today.”
“Sorry, can’t,” she said, relieved to have an excuse. “I’m grounded.”
“Oh.” He paused for a moment and slipped a little-smoky-link finger between his collar and his neck. “Um, well, can you meet me in my office tomorrow morning before class? Around seven thirty? It’s—it’s important.”
It always was with these priests.
Six
EVERY TUESDAY BRIDGET HAD SIXTH period free. Her stint as the second accompanist for the St. Michael’s show choir satisfied her elective credit, and since the choir spent Tuesdays working on audition solos, Bridget was free to (a) sit in the back of the church and work on her homework, or (b) sit in the library and work on her homework.
Exciting options. How about . . . neither?
Bridget rapped softly on the door of Monsignor Renault’s office in the rectory and was answered with an immediate “Come in.”
Bridget smiled to herself. He’d been waiting for her.
She slipped into the office to find Monsignor scribbling away at his ornately carved desk. “Hello, Bridget.” He glanced up and gave her a quick nod. “I’m glad Mr. Vincent could spare you today.”
“Me too.” Any excuse to get out of choir practice.
With the tip of his pen he pointed for her to sit, then continued with his writing. Bridget eased into a brown leather chair and patiently waited for him to finish.
Monsignor’s office was close and cramped, yet over the last few weeks Bridget had come to find it comforting. The dark green carpeting, the heavy reddish brown wood of his desk and bookcases, the Pietà paperweight, the small Tiffany lamp of purple, green, and orange stained glass. Even the heavy scent—a mix of furniture oil and candle wax—marked a place of refuge, a place where someone understood exactly what she was going through. Monsignor was the only one who did.
Her eyes drifted to the portraits of the three archangels that adorned the walls. Traditional Catholic-y stuff, just what you’d expect to find in the office of a semiretired priest, but they were like familiar friends now, observing Bridget’s weekly sessions with her mentor. Raphael, beautiful and cherubic in flowing burgundy robes and matching wings, guiding the young Tobias through the desert. Gabriel the messenger, almost girlish with his strawberry blond locks, bringing the news of the Annunciation to the Virgin Mary. Michael with his sword, his foot on the neck of a cartoonish serpent as he vanquished Satan before the Fall. They seemed to be watching over her, the only witnesses to her weekly meetings with Monsignor, shepherding her into a strange, new world.
Monsignor finished up, carefully closed the leather-bound journal in which he’d been writing, and slipped it into his desk drawer. Bridget heard a lock click into place, then Monsignor tucked the key into the pocket of his cassock and turned his attention to her.
“Shall we discuss yesterday’s banishment?”
He always used that word—“banishment”—instead of exorcism. Bridget kind of liked it. Banishment sounded less icky, less Linda Blair’s spinning head and green puke.
“Please.”
“You did very well with your first possession.”
“Thanks.”
“You remembered the Rules, you followed your instincts.” He paused. “I was impressed.”
Bridget beamed. It was high praise coming from Monsignor. It was why she’d been working so hard, struggling through the Rules and the training, hoping she would remember what to do when the time came. She wanted to leap over the desk and hug him.
“But you still need to work on your focus before we can tackle a more complicated possession.”
Focus. She hated that word. “Oh.”
“These are powerful entities, Bridget. They are not just evil spirits, things of fairy tales and nightmares. Demons cannot manifest of their own accord. They must be summoned into our world through a curse or a satanic ritual, and such summoning only increases their power, as you witnessed yesterday. If you are to succeed in this career, you must learn focus.”
Whoa, what did he say? “Career? I don’t think I—”
“That said,” Monsignor barreled on, ignoring her protest, “you possess a remarkable talent. I’ve never met anyone with your unique abilities.”
“You haven’t?” Bridget hadn’t thought to ask if there were others like her. She’d just sort of assumed that there were. Was she really all alone in this?
Monsignor shook his head. “I have never seen anyone lay hands on a demoniac with the results you achieved yesterday.”
That wasn’t particularly comforting. “Why?” she asked. “Why me?”
“That is difficult to say. Obviously, you’ve been granted a gift.”
Banishing demons was a gift? Some gift. Like getting underwear from Santa.
“Your talents could serve a great many people. Think of all the Mrs. Longs you could help. It would have been many sessions, many painful exorcisms before I would have been able to free her.”
All her fears about her new power bubbled to the surface. “What if it’s not a gift? What if . . .” Bridget bit her lip. “What if I’m somehow causing the possessions?”
Monsignor looked confused. “I don’t follow.”
“You said it yourself: Father Santos was sent here because the Vatican is concerned about the rise of demonic activity in the area.”
“Yes. And?”
“Well, I’ve been babysitting for the Ferguson twins since I was thirteen, and nothing weird or demonic ever happened before. Then suddenly I can do . . . things.” Bridget swallowed hard. She was almost afraid to say it. “This power I have—what if I summoned the demons into their house with it?”
“Have you been performing satanic rituals without my knowledge?” Monsignor asked.
“Um . . . no.”
He smiled. “Then I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Besides, I’ve never heard Mrs. Long mention you before. Do you have a relationship with her I don’t know about?”
Bridget shook her head.
“See? You’re not causing these events. And both the Fergusons and Mrs. Long are quite lucky that you discovered your new talents when you did.”
Bridget tried to smile. They were lucky. Not her.
“As for Father Santos, I think the Vatican is overreacting. Throughout the years I’ve witnessed dramatic fluctuations in demonic possessions. It’s a natural occurrence.”
“Oh. Good.”
“So don’t worry.”
Monsignor smiled. He looked so pleased, so proud of her. And yet . . .
“What if I don’t want this power?” she blurted out. “What if I just want to go back to being what I was before?”
Monsignor cocked his head to the side. “And what, exactly, was that?”
Bridget sighed. “Normal.”
<
br /> “Normal? Oh, Bridget.” Monsignor fell silent. He pressed his lips together until their pink line disappeared into a threaded white blur. He seemed at a loss. “I thought you were enjoying our sessions,” he said at last. “Learning the Rules. I thought you enjoyed the banishment.”
Bridget slumped back in her chair. That was the problem. She did enjoy the banishment. Too much. The sensations, the power—what did that make her? Some kind of weirdo that got off on talking to demons? There were cults for that kind of crazy.
“I guess,” she muttered.
Monsignor stood up and moved to the corner of his desk nearest her. “Bridget, I don’t want to force you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, but I feel a sense of responsibility toward you. If I hadn’t cancelled my appointment with your father to consult on the Undermeyer case that day, I would have been there, might have prevented the tragedy.” He reached out and placed a firm hand on her shoulder. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, but his gray eyes were soft. “I hold myself personally responsible.”
So many apologies. She knew Monsignor really meant it too. He’d been so patient with her over the last few weeks, trying to help her understand what she was, what she could do. But there were only so many times she could say “It’s not your fault” before the words lost their meaning.
Bridget sighed. “It’s not your fault.”
“Yes.” Monsignor patted her shoulder. “But I intend to keep a watchful eye on you, guide you in this new world you’ve discovered. Together, we can be a force against the Enemy.”
Woo hoo.
Monsignor bent his face down close to hers. “I believe
in you, Bridget. I believe you can do wondrous things.” Monsignor returned to his chair. “Now, let us discuss Mrs. Long.”
Bridget dropped her eyes to her lap. “Okay.”
“There were three presences, correct?”
Bridget paused. Three demons that had told her their names, but right at the end, the last one who gave her a warning had seemed . . . different? New? How could she tell that it wasn’t part of the others? These things didn’t exactly wear name tags. And yet . . .
“Bridget?”
Possess Page 4
