BRIDGET HURRIED DOWN THE STEPS of the rectory. What just happened? Father Santos's split personalities spooked her. One minute he's a stuttering clown, the next a violent psychopath. And then he gave her a gift? Maybe he was off his meds or something.

Almost against her will, the Latin words from the prayer card popped into her head. Vade retro satana. Her fingertips tingled again, just a teeny bit, like when you come into a warm room from the bitter cold. She felt lightheaded, giddy, kind of like she'd felt when she laid her hands on Mrs. Long.

Vade retro satana. The sound of the warning bell drifted across the courtyard, but Bridget barely registered it.

Vade retro satana. Why couldn't she get those words out of her head? It was seriously annoying. Like a Lady Gaga song. What did it mean?

Crap. Latin was her worst subject. "Vade" from the verb "vadere," to go? Maybe.

Students brushed passed her as they scurried to class, but Bridget didn't care if she was late to homeroom.

Vade retro satana. She couldn't stop saying it, repeating it in her mind. Each time the vibrations in her hands got stronger, spreading up through her arms. The charm on her bracelet vibrated violently against her wrist as if it was absorbing the energy that raced through her body.

She froze and held her arm up before her face. The charm hung there innocently enough, twisting back and forth on its clasp. "Vade retro satana," Bridget said out loud. The charm leaped to life and flapped back and forth several times against her wrist.

The words were linked to her charm bracelet? Kill me.

Okay. Her Latin wasn't that bad. She could do this. Vade. Go. Go where? Retro: That was easy. Back or backward. Go backward.

Go backward satana.

Go back satana.

Step back satana.

Step back, Satan.

Step back, Satan. Bridget's stomach sank. No wonder the phrase had triggered that humming sensation in her body. It was practically an exorcist's mantra. She didn't care what Monsignor or Father Santos said, there was definitely something wrong, something unnatural about the way she could communicate with evil. Worse, the way she enjoyed it. The giddy tingling vanished as a new, horrifying thought flooded her mind.

She liked the power she had over the demons.

This was so not good.

The hallway was clear as Bridget rounded the corner next to her locker. The last bell must have rung, but she never even heard it. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the combination lock.

"Come on, Bridge," she said out loud. "Get a grip."

"Who are you talking to?"

Bridget screamed and spun around to find the slight figure of Peter Kim staring up at her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"What are you doing here?"

Bridget returned to her locker. "Getting my books, Peter. Locker equals books."

"You're late for class."

Bridget didn't like his tone. "Yeah, I know. And you're making me later."

"You're never late for class."

Bridget slammed her locker door and wheeled on him. "How would you know? What are you, my stalker?"

He didn't answer, just stood there and stared. Peter held himself rigid, like he'd been injured and was keeping his body in a certain position to minimize the pain. His face was blank and pale. Paler than usual.

"Peter, what's going on?"

"I need to talk to you."

"You're supposed to be in homeroom. Zero tolerance policy for tardiness? Detention, your mortal enemy?"

"I don't care."

Bridget's mouth fell open. Peter Kim didn't care about detention? Peter Kim? Had the whole world gone mad?

"I need to talk to you," he repeated.

"Peter, I see you every day. We have homeroom and first period together, for chrissakes."

She started down the hall toward homeroom, but Peter stepped in front of her, blocking her way. His eyes were hard and flat. "I need to talk to you alone."

She sighed and leaned back against the row of lockers. He'd been acting so weird lately. Well, weirder than normal weird. Like, creepy serial killer weird. How many times did she have to tell him that they were just friends?

"All right, Peter. What? What do you need to talk to me about?"

"Are you going to the Winter Formal with Matt Quinn?"

Bridget's jaw dropped. "What the hell?"

His voice was very calm. "I said, are you-"

"I heard you, Peter. I heard. How did you know about that?"

"It's true?"

"Well, um . . ." A quick montage of the various times Peter had asked her to the same dance flashed through her mind: at the library, walking to the library, walking home from the library. Flail.

"You lied to me."

Bridget cringed. "I didn't lie to you."

"Liar," he growled. She'd never heard such rage in his voice before.

Was everyone in her life ganging together to put her on trial? Questions, accusations, apologies-she was sick of it. Bridget covered her eyes with her hand, rubbing her now-throbbing temples with thumb and forefinger. She didn't need to justify herself to Peter Kim. This wasn't any of his business.

"Well?" Peter's voice was a harsh whisper.

"Look," she said, dropping her hand to her side in a gesture of defeat. "I wasn't planning on going. Then he asked and I-"

The sight of Peter's face froze the words of explanation in her mouth. He was red, deep cherry red, and shaking.

"I. Asked. You. First!"

His shout filled the empty hallway, bouncing off the tile floor and metallic lockers before fading to a hollow echo. He took several steps toward her, backing Bridget up against a row of lockers. His lip curled up over his teeth and he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. "You lied to me, Bridget Liu. You lied to me."

She'd never seen Peter like that. The one constant, the one lovely thing about Peter Kim was that he was as passive as a freaking kitten. She said no, he backed off. That was the pattern.

Bridget pressed her body against the cold lockers, trying to get as far away from Peter as she could. This wasn't the friend she'd known since she was seven. His features were contorted and his small eyes were black with rage.

"How did you know I was going to the dance with Matt?"

The question seemed to shake him for a moment. His eyes flickered away from her face and the redness drained from his features.

"I, uh . . ." Peter's voice died away. A spell had been broken. "I don't remember."

Bridget sensed the power swing. She shimmied out from between Peter and the lockers. "You don't remember who told you?"

"Um . . ."

The old Peter was back. Timid, unsure. He wrung his hands in front of him, and his eyes wandered around the hall like he had no idea how he'd gotten there. Poor guy.

"I have to go," he said. His feet stumbled forward like he was a marionette propelled on strings, pigeon-toed and jerky. "I have to go."

"Peter?" She couldn't help feeling like she'd wounded him. She tried to touch him, but he flinched from her hand.

"Leave me alone!" he screamed, then broke into a full sprint and disappeared around the corner toward the gym.

Bridget stared after him. She couldn't decide which was stranger: Peter's rage or the fact that he willingly ran into the gym. It was Bizarro Peter.

"Bridget!"

Bridget jumped and turned to find a breathless Monsignor Renault marching down the hall, his heavy, purposeful footsteps filling the void left by Peter's retreat. "You weren't in homeroom. I've been looking for you."

"Sorry." She wondered how much of Peter's conversation Monsignor had overheard.

Monsignor's eyes were fixed on the door to the gym. "You're not usually late for class, are you?"

"Yeah, I was just-" Had he forgotten about her meeting? She decided not to bring it up. The last thing she wanted at the moment was to rehash her unsettling conversation with Father Santos. "I'm just running late today."

"Hmm," he said, still gazing over her head.

Bridget was officially so late for class that even her lax homeroom teacher would have to write her up. She cleared her throat and pulled her cell phone out of her backpack to pointedly check the time. "What's up?"

"Yes," he said with a shake of his head. "Yes. We have another, eh, situation."

"Another one?" Three cases of demonic possession in a month? That had to be a record, right? "Isn't that kind of weird?"

His eyes shone. "Yes!"

"Oh."

Monsignor clapped her on the shoulder. His hand trembled, and there was a hint of a smile about his mouth. He looked like Sammy on his first trip to the Academy of Sciences.

"We are so lucky to have another opportunity for you."

Lucky wasn't the word that came to mind. "Um, yay?"

"We'll need to get over there as soon as possible. After school today?"

That was going to be a problem. "I can't. I'm grounded."

"Grounded?" Disappointment swept across his face.

"Yeah. I'm really sorry. You'll have to go without me."

Monsignor threw up his hands. "I cannot go without you. It would be pointless."

Bridget's eyes flitted down to her phone again. Fifteen minutes late, and Monsignor just stood there, rubbing his chin in thought while Bridget pictured detentions piling up on top of her grounding. This week was a horror show.

"I'll talk to your mother."

Bridget's eyes grew wide. "My mom?"

"Yes, I'll call her after school. She teaches at St. Cecilia's, correct?"

"Um, yeah, but she's not going to-"

"Perfect. Then we'll go tomorrow."

Obviously Monsignor Renault had never dealt with Annie Liu, First Grade Teacher. She wasn't exactly a pushover. "What if she says no?"

"She won't." He patted her head just like her father used to, then turned and walked away with quick, long strides as if he suddenly had someplace very important to be. "Meet me in the rectory parking lot after school tomorrow," he called over his shoulder.

"No?" she said halfheartedly. But the word fell on an empty hallway. Monsignor Renault was gone.

Twelve.