Father Santos stopped writing and looked at her. "Are you sure?"

Bridget returned his stare. "Someone tells me I've been touched by Jesus, I remember."

"Not Jesus," he said in all seriousness. "The hand of God."

Bridget was getting tired of all the Bible talk. "Whatever."

"No, not whatever. There is a grave difference." Father Santos bounced to his feet and scurried over to a pile of boxes in the middle of the room. He shifted the top two onto another pile, then drew a set of rosary beads out of his pocket. In a swift, clean motion he made the sign of the cross over the box, then used a sharp corner of the metal crucifix to break the seal on the packing tape, running it down the length of the box.

Well, that's something you don't see every day.

As he slipped the rosary back into his pocket, he caught Bridget's eye.

"Can't seem to find any of my supplies," he said, the color rising ever so slightly in his brown face. "You know, any port in a storm and all that."

Bridget nodded and hoped her face didn't reflect what her brain was thinking, namely that Father Santos was a whackadoo.

After a few moments digging through the sacrilegiously opened box, Father Santos pulled out a large volume, thick as a dictionary and encased in a crinkly plastic cover. He resumed his seat and placed the book carefully on the desk in front of him. As he flipped open the cover, the stench of damp newspaper wafted upward.

"You are blessed, Bridget Liu," Father Santos said as he carefully turned the worn, fragile pages.

That was hardly what she would call it.

"You are blessed with an exceedingly rare gift."

"So I've heard," she said under her breath.

"A divine gift," he continued. "The touch of the hand of God."

Bridget fought back a laugh. "Um, sure."

Father Santos cocked his head. "You don't believe me."

"Look, no offense, but that's not possible."

"According to the Bible, it's quite possible."

"But-" How exactly was she supposed to argue with that? The old "It's in the Bible" was about as irrefutable as her mom's "Because I said so, that's why." "Look, even if that's true, it wouldn't happen to me."

"Why not?"

"Because God and I aren't exactly on the best of terms." Bridget decided not to mention that she'd told God to piss off after her dad's murder. "If he was making a gift list, I'd be at the bottom. Trust me."

Father Santos smiled. "I think you underestimate yourself."

I think you're out of your freaking mind.

Father Santos found the page he was looking for and swung the book around for her to see. It was an etching of angels exposed to an enormous light, the beams drawn as lightning bolts coming from a central point. Most of the angels looked rapturous, their heads thrown back in ecstasy, arms reaching up to the unseen source of light. But some cowered, clamoring over one another in an attempt to flee the rays, their faces twisted in pain, rage, and fear.

"The divine grace of God," Father Santos said, his voice lower now, reverential. "Signified by the hand of God."

"You mean it's not really his hand?"

Father Santos sighed. "God doesn't have a hand, Bridget. Or a body. What are they teaching you in Catholic school?"

Bridget narrowed her eyes. "History?"

"Hmph. Divine grace," Father Santos continued, ignoring her. "It's not just God's favor, it's the spark of life itself. And God has not offered his grace to man directly since the time of Adam."

"That's cool and all," Bridget said, stifling a yawn. She was so ready to blow this taco stand. "But I don't see what it has to do with me."

"Well, that's not a talent most people have, Bridget. Not even an experienced exorcist like Monsignor Renault can communicate with the entities unless they are in possession of a human, and even then, well, they tend to be unreliable."

"Rule Number Five," Bridget said.

"Rule Number Five?"

"They lie."

"Yes, they do. It is their nature to do so. To lie and to take possession of our souls by any means possible. And you, Bridget. You are a great weapon against them."

Bridget got to her feet. "Look, I'm sure you're an expert and all, but Monsignor would have told me about all this if it was true."

Father Santos cleared his throat. "Really?"

Bridget's face grew hot. She didn't need to justify Monsignor's actions to Father Santos. She swung her backpack over her shoulder and headed for the door. "I'm out

of here."

She didn't make it halfway across the tiny office before Father Santos grabbed her right hand and spun her around with such force that her backpack whipped off her shoulder and slammed into a bookcase.

"What is this?" Father Santos said. His beady black eyes were trained on her wrist.

"Let me go." Bridget yanked her arm away, but Father Santos held firm with a strength that surprised her. He drew her arm close to his face.

"Where did you get this?"

What the hell was he doing? Bridget tried to pull away again, but Father Santos only tightened his grip. She could feel her fingers going numb from the pressure. Suddenly, Bridget was painfully aware that (a) no one knew where she was and (b) the only person around the rectory at that hour was the little old church lady working in the kitchen, who probably wouldn't hear her screams.

"Let me go or . . . I'll scream."

"V R S N S M V," Father Santos said, reading the letters that circled the square cross charm. "Do you know what this is?" His eyes darted back and forth between it and her face; his upper lip glistened with perspiration. He almost looked as if he was frightened. "Do you?"

"No."

"Don't lie to me."

Bridget was officially freaked out. This wasn't the Father Santos she'd seen so far. His stutter was gone. His absentminded-professor persona had vanished. And as he held her there in his office, his face hardened with suspicion and fear, Monsignor's warning against the new priest from the Vatican raced through her mind. Be careful.

"Well?" Father Santos said, giving her arm a shake.

"It was a gift," Bridget said. "From my dad."

Instantly Father Santos released her. "Your dad?"

Bridget rubbed her wrist, easing circulation back into her fingers. "Yeah, it was a First Communion gift from my dad, okay? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Oh. I-I see." The old Father Santos had returned. He dropped his eyes to the floor and shuffled his feet. "I-I-I'm sorry about that."

Sorry? Bridget snatched her backpack off the ground and bolted for the door. "Stay away from me."

Father Santos trotted after her. "Bridget, wait. I-I-I need t-to explain."

She hauled the door open and stepped into the hallway. "Explain why you practically ripped my arm out of my socket? No, thanks."

"That's a little d-dramatic, don't you think?"

"Whatever." She turned and headed toward the stairs. She couldn't wait to get as far away from Father Santos as possible.

"Wait, please!"

Bridget ignored him and flew around the railing and down the stairs. She was already at the front door when he called her name from the upstairs balcony.

"What?" She was going to be so late for class.

"I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to . . . to upset you."

"Uh-huh."

"But I have something that might, er, make it up to you." Father Santos held up his hand, asking her to wait, then dashed back into his office.

Bridget folded her arms across her chest. Make it up to her? Oh, this should be good.

Father Santos waddled down the stairs and held up a small white envelope, which he placed in Bridget's hand. "This might help."

"Help what?"

"Help you deal with . . . everything."

"I don't need your help."

He motioned to the envelope. "Please?"

"Fine." Why was she humoring him? Bridget flipped the envelope open and pulled out a laminated prayer card. One side had the image of a sword in each of its four corners, with the Latin text of the Prayer of St. Michael, which every St. Michael's Prep freshman was forced to memorize. The back had a weird picture of an angel, Michael, sword in hand on a rocky island, doing battle with a dragon. Beneath, the words "Vade Retro Satana" were printed in a strange, medieval-

looking font.

"St. Michael and the serpent in the battle for Heaven."

"I know what it is," Bridget snapped. "Catholic school, remember?"

"Right." Father Santos's tone was lighter than it had been since she arrived. "It's . . . it's a talisman of sorts. It might help."

Bridget tossed the envelope into her backpack. "If you say so." Like a prayer card was going to help her through the nightmare that was her life.

"Just promise me you'll keep it, okay? Maybe say the words to yourself once in a while?"

The text on the card jumped into her head. Vade retro satana. Her fingertips began to tingle. Bridget shook it off. "I'm going to be late for class."

Father Santos planted his hand against the front door. "Promise you'll keep it? Please?"

Why did he have such a burr up his butt about this? "Fine."

"And the bracelet."

Bridget took a step away from him. "What about it?"

"You wear it all the time?"

"Yep."

"Good. Promise you won't take it off."

"Fine, whatever." Just let me out of here.

Father Santos opened the rectory door for her and stepped aside. "Good. Good. That's good enough for now."

Eleven.