"Um . . ." Loaded question.

"You've been drifting through life for the past few weeks," her mom said. "Lost in your thoughts, barely paying attention. It's not like you at all."

The stress that had been building up in Bridget's world snapped. "Not like me?" she said, tossing the dishrag onto the counter. "How would you even know what I'm like?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. You have no idea what's going on with me. I could be growing weed in the basement and you wouldn't even notice."

Her mom narrowed her eyes. "I'd notice if you were growing drugs in the house, Bridget."

"Oh, yeah? When you're not at work you're coddling Sammy like he's still attached at the umbilical cord."

"Sammy needs-"

"Sammy's fine, Mom. He's eight and he's way more independent than you think, okay?"

Her mom's face clouded over. "Don't tell me what Sammy is or isn't."

Bridget clamped her mouth closed. She'd gone too far. "Well, even when you're home, you're not here. You're with one of them."

Her mom's freckled Irish skin flushed pink. "With whom?"

"Oh, come off it, Mom. Dad hasn't even been dead a year, and you're already splitting your free time between Mr. Darlington and Sergeant Quinn?" She threw up her hands. "It's messed up."

Her mom clenched her fists. "Don't you dare." There was a quiver in her voice, but Bridget was over it.

"Did you even ask where Monsignor Renault wants to take me after school tomorrow?"

A wave of horror washed over her mom's face.

Bridget held her hand up in front of her. "Oh, God, it's not that. I could handle that, Mom."

"I figured you'd tell me if you wanted."

"Right. 'Cause us teenagers, we're so big on sharing."

Her mom sighed. "All right, Bridget. Where are you going with Monsignor Renault after school tomorrow?"

Bridget rolled her eyes. Yeah, like now was the time to bring that up. "It doesn't matter. Just don't pretend like we're buddy-buddy, okay? Because we're not."

"Bridget-"

Bridget turned on her heel and stomped out of the kitchen. "Go call one of your boyfriends," she said over her shoulder. "I'm sure they'll have wonderful advice on how to deal with me."

Bridget slammed her bedroom door as hard as she could. Her dad had removed the lock when she was a kid, but Bridget was relatively sure that her mom would leave her alone. It was easier to "give Bridget her space" than to confront the demon of her temper head-on.

Demon. Crappy choice of words. This whole exorcism business had seeped into the core of her soul, affecting every thought she had, every aspect of her life. A cat she couldn't see, the empty stare in Peter's eyes, demonic possessions around every corner. And then there were Father Santos's theory and his obsession with her bracelet.

Bridget slumped to the floor and rested her head against the bed. There was a logical explanation for all of it. There had to be.

She held up her right arm and watched as the dangling square cross on her bracelet twisted back and forth. The once-sharp edges were dulled with wear and the raised scrollwork was not quite as defined as it had been when she first put it on. But the lettering, as Father Santos had shown, was clearly legible. Two bars crossed in the middle, with the letters C S P B in each of its quadrants, all encompassed by a circle of letters that had never made any sense.

What had Father Santos read? She peered at the charm and read the letters out loud, clockwise. "V R S N S M V."

Beneath her fingers, the charm jumped.

That damn charm! Bridget pulled her laptop out from under her bed and fired it up. It had to be connected to what was happening to her. Either that, or her body had suddenly gone magnetic. She strummed her fingers impatiently on her leg as she waited for the internet portal to load, then typed each of the letters from the charm in order.

V R S N S M V-S M Q L I V B Google didn't fail her. Bridget had an answer within seconds.

"The St. Benedict medal?" she read from an encyclopedia entry. "A Catholic emblem dating back to the fifteenth century, used by laypeople to protect against spirits, witchcraft, and other diabolical influences." She scanned the entry and found an illustration of a typical St. Benedict medal: on the front, the image of the saint in question holding a cross in one hand and a book in the other; on the back, the same lettering Bridget had on her charm.

Huh. How come her charm only had one side?

She continued to read. "The lettering remained a mystery until a manuscript was discovered at Metten Abbey in Bavaria in 1647. The letters were found to correspond to the Vade retro satana prayer."

As if to punctuate that statement, her charm shuddered.

Vade retro satana. Again? It was a prayer?

Vade retro satana Numquam suade mihi vana Sunt mala quae libas Ipse venana bibas.

The passage was helpfully translated: Step back, Satan Never tempt me with vain things What you offer me is evil You drink the poison yourself.

So her father had given her an exorcist's good-luck charm when she was seven, a charm that had caught Father Santos so off guard he'd promptly lost his cool, a charm that moved by itself when its prayer was read out loud.

Coincidence? Could it have been a weird twist of fate that this charm just happened to catch her dad's eye in a store window? No. That was too ridiculous for even Bridget to buy. But the alternative was even more disturbing: Her dad had known exactly what that medal meant when he gave it

to her.

How?

She snapped her laptop closed and shoved it back under the bed. Nothing but questions that had no answers. That was her life now: one giant question mark.

Why her? Why was all of this happening to her? She felt like a baton getting passed along in a relay race, completely devoid of any control over her own destiny. She hadn't asked for this power, and now she was expected to "help" people like it was her nine-to-five job.

What if she didn't want to? What if she didn't go with Monsignor tomorrow? The world wouldn't end. He'd be disappointed, sure, but he'd do the banishment himself, as he'd done hundreds and hundreds of times before. It wouldn't be a big deal.

That was it. She was taking control. She wasn't going to be anybody's pawn. If she didn't want to do the banishment tomorrow, then that was that.

Bridget's temples throbbed. The stress of the last few days was taking its toll. Matt was right; she needed someone to confide in.

Her dad would have understood. He would have listened to her, calmly and without judgment. He'd always been like that. Where her mom was emotional with a wicked temper, her dad had been quiet, serene, unflappable. He had always understood Bridget, always seemed to know what his Pumpkin Bunny was thinking and feeling, even when she didn't understand it herself.

Pumpkin Bunny. Bridget's eyes drifted to the bookshelf where her favorite childhood toy sat propped up in the corner. It had been a gift from her dad from before she could remember, a soft, fluffy stuffed bunny popping out of a pumpkin like a stripper from a birthday cake. She and Pumpkin Bunny had been inseparable. She had dragged that thing with her everywhere she went, since before she could walk until she was old enough to think that stuffed animals were lame. Its once-white fur was now yellowish gray, and its head had undergone so many surgeries, the multicolored threads from her mom's sewing kit made it look more Frankenbunny than Pumpkin Bunny. But even when the toy had been relegated to a spot on her bookshelf, the nickname stuck. To her dad, Bridget was always Pumpkin Bunny.

Bridget rested her forehead against her knees, closed her eyes, and listened to the sound of her breath: inhale one . . . two, exhale one . . . two, inhale one . . . two, exhale one . . . two.

"I miss you, Dad," she said out loud. "I wish you were here."

Something brushed past her leg. Something small, fuzzy, and moving quickly. Bridget's eyes flew open. Not only was she hearing a phantom cat, now she was feeling one too?

From deep inside her closet, Bridget again heard the faint scratching of a cat's claws.

Thirteen.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'RE not coming?" Monsignor said, holding open the door of his navy blue Crown Vic.

Bridget glanced from Monsignor to Father Santos and back, then shrugged. "I'm not going. I don't want to do this anymore."

"Bridget, I don't understand." Monsignor frowned and shot Father Santos an accusatory look, before turning back to her. "I thought we understood one another."

She couldn't look him in the eye. "I don't want to be like this."

"Like what?"

A weapon? "A freak."

"Bridget, you have a gift, a gift many people would kill to possess."

Kill to possess? Was he crazy? Maybe kill to get rid of. Or maybe just kill.

Monsignor knelt in front of her, his bushy white eyebrows pinched together above his nose. Bridget wasn't sure if he was about to give her a pep talk or a proposal.

"Bridget, think about what you're saying." He leaned an arm on his knee in what Bridget suspected was an attempt to look casual. She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. "Think of the people you've helped already. The Fergusons and Mrs. Long."

It was true, Bridget couldn't deny it. Who knew what would have happened that night to Danny and Manny if she hadn't been there?

Or maybe it was true that the demons were there because she had been babysitting at the Fergusons'. Possessions seemed to be following her around.

Father Santos stepped between them. "We can't force Bridget to go," he said lightly. "I doubt her gift is as effective if she's using it against her will."

Monsignor's eyes flashed toward Father Santos with a look of what Bridget could only describe as disgust. "This is none of your business, Father."

"If she doesn't want to go," Father Santos continued with a smile, "she doesn't have to." He looked utterly pleased with the turn of events.

Monsignor bolted to his feet. "I'm sorry, Father Santos. I did not realize that you were in charge of exorcisms for this archdiocese. I did not realize that you were the only senior exorcist in the United States."

Father Santos had to tilt his head back to look Monsignor in the face. The older priest towered above him, hands clenched at his sides, looming over Father Santos like a wave about to break on the lowly shore.

"Er," Father Santos stuttered. "Well, no, of course. I mean, the Vatican has, well . . . I mean."

Bridget almost felt sorry for Father Santos. It was like watching a rabbit go up against a grizzly bear. Slaughterfest.

"Exactly." Monsignor narrowed his eyes. "And if you think for one second that you have enough experience, enough faith, enough knowledge of this girl and what she is capable of, then by all means, I shall step aside and let you proceed with today's banishment."

"M-M-Monsignor Renault," Father Santos managed to spit out. "I-I'm only saying that Bridget, well, she-she should decide for herself."

"Really?" Monsignor swung around and addressed Bridget in his booming, official exorcist's voice. "Bridget, what have we trained for? What have we spent all this time working on together?"

Oh, so this is what Catholic guilt felt like.

"Well?"

"I, uh . . ." It was a silly question. Monsignor was right: He'd spent so much time training her, teaching her, believing in her. Was she really going to give all that up because she freaked out at the feeling she got when she banished a demon? Was she really that selfish?

"Hey, Bridge!" Matt Quinn ran across the parking lot. Flail. "Bridge, wait up."

"Matt," Bridget said, trying to sound casual. "What are you doing here?"

"Hey, I thought maybe you'd want a ride home," he said as he jogged up to the car. "I saw Hector out front and he said he hadn't seen you after school so I came looking for you."

Bridget closed her eyes. Sweet cartwheeling Jesus! God forbid she do anything without Matt and her mom sticking their noses in it.

"Bridget has some official parish business to attend to this afternoon," Monsignor said.

"I'm sorry, sir," Matt said to Monsignor with a nod of his head. Such a good Catholic boy. "I didn't realize-"

"You are Sergeant Stephen Quinn's son, are you not?" Monsignor asked.

"Yes, sir."

"I see."

"Matt," Bridget started, "I need to go."

"Oh." Matt looked at her sidelong. "You okay, Bridget?"

"Yeah." She didn't want to get into it with him; he'd be on the phone to her mom five seconds after the words "I'm going to an exorcism" hit the air.

Matt's eyes flicked between the two priests, then landed on her face with a look of confusion. "Do you need me to come with you?"