Possess (24 page)

“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.”

“But if I can get the ring off Monsignor’s finger, we might be able to stop the transfer.”

Bridget cocked her head. “The ring?”

“It controls the conjuration and protects him from Amaymon.”

“Will that save my brother?”

Father Santos shook his head. “No.”

“Then—”

“You, Bridget. You’re the only one who can save Sammy.”

Bridget dropped her eyes. “I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Now, slave!”

“Bridget, it’s time to accept who you are.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Father Santos sat back on his heels, then rose majestically to his feet. “On the count of three, I’m opening that door and making a run for Monsignor. You can either follow me, or die here. The choice is yours.”

With one arm wrapped around her ribs, Bridget hauled herself to her feet. “That’s a choice?”

Father Santos ignored her. “One. Two.
Three!
”

Thirty-Six

F
ATHER
S
ANTOS SLID THE CONFESSIONAL
door open and bolted down the aisle. Bridget could hear his rapid footsteps retreating until the sound was masked by a rumbling laugh.

“Your priest forsakes you, Watcher,” Amaymon growled.

Bridget limped into the doorway. Sammy, or the thing possessing Sammy’s body, stood in the center aisle of the church. She could see the tousled black hair, the thin, delicate neck, the blue-and-white Justice League pajamas. But the faint light from the flickering candles illuminated his features enough for Bridget to know that this thing, this creature, was no longer her little brother.

The muscles of his face had completely rearranged themselves beneath Sammy’s skin. His flat nose was now sharp, and his normally weak chin squared. The lips were thin, almost nonexistent, and parted to reveal jagged, broken teeth. Sammy’s brows protruded over his eyes, which were sunken far back in his skull.

“Well, Watcher?” Amaymon didn’t move. “Do you not wish to challenge me? Banish me?”

“Banish. Banish. Banish the Master,”
the stained glass windows mocked.
“The Watcher cannot. The Master is strong.”

Bridget’s heart ached. Sammy. This was her fault. She should have been able to predict this. She should have been able to protect him, and now here he was, with a demon’s soul sucking the life from his body. Poor Sammy.

Who’s been ripping pews out of the ground and launching them across the room.

But it was still her brother, who did her math homework for her when she didn’t feel like doing it herself and who still crawled into bed with her when he’d been spooked by a nightmare. Amaymon was not fully conjured. Not yet. He was still Sammy.

If that’s half strength, you’re seriously screwed, Bridge.

True, but if she was going to die, she was going to do it trying to save her brother’s life.

“I banish you, Amaymon.”

Laughter rippled through the windows above.

“Finish her, Master.” Monsignor’s voice was harsh, empty. She couldn’t believe she’d ever trusted him. “Finish her so we can complete your conjuration.”

“I banish you from this church,” Bridget continued.

“Do you?” Amaymon growled. Still he did not move.

His calmness unnerved her. “I banish you from this world.”

“Yes?”

“I—I . . .” Her words seemed to have no effect, and that tingling feeling had completely abandoned her.

Monsignor’s voice boomed from the altar where he stood. “The Watcher is weak.”

“Yes,” Amaymon growled.

“Show the Watch—”

Bridget heard a high-pitched scream, then watched as Father Santos barreled across the altar like a free safety and tackled Monsignor.

“You cannot stop me,” Monsignor yelled as Father Santos attempted to pin his hands to the ground. “It’s too late.”

“Hurry, Bridget,” Father Santos cried.

Hurry and do what? So far, nothing she said had affected the demon king in the slightest.

“The slave is foolish,” Amaymon said, his full attention turned back to Bridget. “It is time for you to see what real power is.”

Bridget never saw what hit her. One moment she was leaning against the confessional, and the next she was dangling six feet off the floor, grasping at an invisible hand that squeezed her throat. A cacophony of shrieks and screams filled the church, and the menagerie of shadows lining the wall erupted in a frenzy of thrashing limbs and bodies. In the distance she could hear Father Santos and Monsignor wrestling on the altar.

The invisible hand that gripped her was massive, the fingers long enough to wrap all the way around her neck. As her senses began to dull, Bridget could have sworn she heard laughter. Not the deep, cacophonous laughter of demons, but a girlish giggle. She pried at the cold, scaly flesh at her throat, and out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw two figures in the darkened corner of the church: a tall, slender man and a girl with a halo of curls around her head, both with glowing green eyes. They looked so familiar, but as the hand continued to squeeze, Bridget lost sight of them. Her windpipe closed off, her lungs seized up from lack of air. She felt herself slipping into the darkness.

“Let her go!”

It took Bridget a moment to realize who had spoken.

“I said, let her go!” Matt yelled.

The hand released her. Bridget crashed onto a pew, her feet sliding out from underneath her as she collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

“Bridget?” Matt called. She heard his footsteps thundering down the aisle. “Bridge, are you okay?”

She hoisted herself onto the pew and held her arms out before her, trying to keep him away. “Matt, don’t. Get out of here.”

“Fool!” Amaymon cried.

Matt’s sneakers screeched to a halt. “Sammy? Sammy, is that you?”

Bridget caught a gleam in Amaymon’s eye. She heaved herself into the aisle and pointed toward the door. “Matt, get out. Get—”

A guttural roar from her possessed little brother froze the words on her lips. Amaymon shot his hand forward. Matt’s body flew through the church, over the altar, and hit the wall next to the crucifix.

“No!” Bridget screamed. She stumbled forward, her eyes fixed on Matt’s crumpled body.

She didn’t make it ten steps before the invisible hand grabbed ahold of her hair and yanked her to the ground. Her skull cracked against the stone floor; sickening pain engulfed her. She wanted to vomit, but the pain in her chest was so crippling it stopped her heaves.

Amaymon stood before her. “Stand, Watcher.” The angels in the windows cheered him on. “Stand and meet your death.”

Tears streamed down her face. Peter was dead. Matt was dead. Sammy and Father Santos would die. It was all her fault. She should just let the demon kill her and be done with it. At least then she’d be free. No more pain, no more suffering. And maybe she’d see her dad again.

Vade retro satana
.

The words came to her as soon as she thought of her dad.
Vade retro satana
. Step back, Satan.

The St. Benedict medal trembled, then her hands and arms, her feet and legs began to vibrate. She’d never felt it this strong before, racing through her like lightning, buzzing and churning, awakening every last inch of her body with its energy, its heat, its life.

“Vade retro satana,”
she murmured.

She heard Amaymon catch his breath.

“Vade retro satana.”
Her voice was stronger, more powerful. The sensations in her body intensified in waves. She got to her feet; her ankle no longer throbbed with pain. The energy rose to a fever pitch. Bridget reached the tipping point. If she didn’t force the feelings back, they would take over, swamp her, consume her.

Amaymon growled and lowered his head, his orange eyes filling the darkness beneath his brows.

“Bridget!” Father Santos yelled above the fury. “This is who you are. This is who you—” His voice choked off.

“Shut up, fool,” Monsignor snarled. “You cannot help her now.”

This is who you are
. This is who I am. I’m Bridget Liu and I’m a Watcher.

“VADE RETRO SATANA!”
she screamed at the top of her lungs. She spread her arms wide, closed her eyes, and let the vibrations wash over her.

She was floating on water, her body buoyed, enfolded by warm, tropical waves. She no longer felt the cold interior of the church, the lacquered wood of the pew, the harsh marble beneath her feet. The screams of the demons, the clash of Monsignor’s sword, the growling form of Amaymon: None of it existed.

Every inch of her body seemed alive, crackling with energy. The pain in her ribs and ankle was gone. She ran her fingers through her hair, down the sides of her face, across her chest, down to her hips and back up again. Her fingertips lingered at her neck, caressing the soft skin, indulging in the teasing stings of electricity at each touch.

“Oh my God,” Father Santos said.

Bridget opened her eyes to find the chaos of the church had ceased entirely. The stained glass angels stared at her, motionless. The shadows stood frozen on the wall. Monsignor had one arm around Father Santos’s neck and the sword of St. Michael in the other.

And Sammy.

She could still see Sammy, the real Sammy, standing small and docile in his Justice League pajamas, his eyes closed as if sleepwalking. Surrounding him was a new creature, a figure defined in black smoke, its indefinite shape illuminated by silvery light that shifted and seethed. This was the entity she’d caught a fleeting glimpse of at Mrs. Long’s. This was the invisible hand that choked her, the unseen force that threw pews, that attacked Matt. This was Amaymon, the real Amaymon, a demon king of Hell.

Then she realized something else. She was staring this creature—this towering shadow of evil—dead in the eye.

She looked down at her body. The silver light was coming from her. Through her.
Was
her. The outline of her hands and fingers was obscured by a blur of intense light. She couldn’t even see her jeans and sneakers, just a pillar of light extending ten feet down to the floor.

Well, that was new.

She should have been afraid. She should have closed her eyes and wished she was safe in her bed at home, but she didn’t. She should have looked to Father Santos for advice on what to do next, but she didn’t need to. Somehow, she just knew.

“Amaymon, fallen from Grace.” Her voice sounded huge.

Amaymon backed away from her. “This cannot be. This cannot be.”

She followed him. “The Watchers were given dominion over you and your kin.”

“We are strong.” Amaymon sounded anything but. “We are many.”

“I banish you.”

Groans and howls of agony pierced her eardrums. Father Santos and Monsignor must have heard them as well; both sprawled on the floor, hands clamped to their ears. The glow of Bridget’s skin intensified. The stained glass angels shielded their faces from her light, and the shadows on the wall faded into the dappled stone.

From the back of the church, Bridget heard running footsteps, followed by a door opening, then slamming shut. Had there been someone else in the church with them? She pushed the thought out of her mind. She had more pressing matters to deal with, and whatever she was doing, it was working.

Bridget held out her arm and pointed at Amaymon. It was just a shaft of light, and it penetrated the wavering smoke of his being. “I banish you, Amaymon. I banish you to Hell.”

“Bridge?” It was Sammy’s voice. Bridget gasped; he sounded terrified. “Bridge, you’re hurting me.”

“Sammy?” He was still there, beneath the wavering smoke figure of Amaymon, eyes closed, body rigid. Was it really him or just a trick? “Sammy, are you okay?”

Sammy began to cry. “Bridge, you’re hurting me.”

Father Santos rolled onto his knees. “Don’t listen to him, Bridget.”

“Stop it,” Sammy wailed. “Stop it!”

“It’s still Amaymon,” Father Santos said.

“No!” Monsignor launched himself at Father Santos. “The Master will see you burn.”

Bridget reached her arm of light toward the small, sleepwalking figure of Sammy buried deep within the shadow of Amaymon. She willed her fingers to curl around Sammy’s arm.

“Let me go, Bridge!” Sammy was hysterical. “Let me go!”

“Finish the exorcism, Bridget!” Father Santos yelled. “Finish the banishment.”

Bridget set her jaw. It wasn’t Sammy. Sammy was only the vessel. If she didn’t get Amaymon out of his body, he’d be lost forever.

Her grip on Sammy’s arm tightened. No, she wasn’t going to lose her brother now. He and the demon weren’t inseparable. Not yet. She turned her attention to Amaymon, focusing on his being, his essence, the aura of evil in the church. Separate from Sammy. Separate from her brother.

“I banish you.”

“No!” Sammy screamed. She tensed, keeping his arm in a death grip.

“I banish you from this church, from this land, from this—”

“No!” Amaymon’s voice this time, booming forth from her brother’s mouth.

“I banish you from this world of men.”

Bridget held on to Sammy’s arm with all her strength. There was a moment of strain as the demon king tried to wrest his human host away. Then Bridget felt the snap. Amaymon had given up, leaving Sammy’s limp body in Bridget’s arms.

“Sammy?” she said. She lowered his body to the ground. His face was tinged with gray as if the life had been drained from him.

He was dead. He was dead, and all this had been for nothing.

“Master!” Monsignor stretched his hand in supplication, and Father Santos was on him in an instant. He wrenched the silver ring from Monsignor’s finger and threw it to the back of the church.

Monsignor’s face blanched. “What have you done?”

“Now, Bridget!” Father Santos said. “Finish it.”

Amaymon’s form swelled, doubling in size. He was gathering his strength.

“Bridget!” Father Santos called again. “What are you waiting for?”

She looked down at Sammy’s motionless body. They’d taken her father. They’d taken her brother. It was time to take something in return.

“By the power of the Watchers,” Bridget yelled as the tears streamed down her face. “Amaymon, king of the west, I BANISH YOU!”

Amaymon whirled into a vortex of swirling blackness. The force of the tornado was so fierce it sucked the words right out of Bridget’s mouth. The swirling mass lifted up off the ground, and the floor beneath the circle crumbled away. As Amaymon sank into the hole, a tendril of smoke shot toward Monsignor and wrapped around his outstretched hand.

“NO!” Monsignor screamed. He slid across the floor, pulled by the last gasp of strength from his master. He clawed at the broken ground at the mouth of the hole, trying to keep from falling in. “Help me, Bridget. Help me.”

Bridget looked down at Monsignor. She should have reached out, kept him from falling, allowed him to face his fate for the murders of her father and brother. It would have been the good thing to do.

But Bridget didn’t care. “Rule Number Two, Monsignor. Do not show pity.”