Bridget, Monsignor, and Father Santos all answered in unison. "No!"

Matt's brows drew together, and Bridget recognized that familiar look of concern and, barf, responsibility. His face pleaded with her silently for some sort of explanation. She didn't know why, but she thought it was kind of sweet. "I'm fine," she said, reaching for the car door. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

He grasped her hand, intertwining his fingers loosely in hers. "Promise?"

Bridget's heart thumped in her chest. What was wrong with her? "Yeah," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "Yeah, I promise."

Far from appeased, Matt's brows lowered over his eyes. He bent his head close to hers. Bridget held her breath. "We're still on for Saturday night, right?"

"The Winter Formal?" Father Santos asked. He sounded surprised.

Matt straightened up and withdrew his hand from hers. Bridget wasn't sure if she wanted to thank Father Santos or murder him.

"Yeah," Matt said. "Bridget and I are going."

Father Santos's jaw dropped. "You're going to the Winter Formal? Together?"

"Yes, we are," Matt said. "Is there a problem?"

"N-no. I just, I just thought-"

"BRIDGE!" A shriek pealed across the parking lot. Bridget spun around to find Peter Kim sprinting to the car.

Really? Really? First Matt, now Peter? She'd managed to avoid him all day and now he found her? Was she being punished for something?

"Interesting timing," Father Santos muttered.

"Bridge," Peter panted as he trotted up to her, all red faced and sweaty from his brief outburst of physical activity. He brushed past Matt without a glance in his direction. "Bridge, I've . . . I've come to take you home."

Bridget snorted. "I can get myself home, Peter."

"But I can protect you."

Was he serious? "Protect me from-"

"If anyone's taking Bridget home," Matt interrupted. "It's me."

Oh, great. A pissing contest. "Guys, seriously? I don't need either of you to-"

Peter turned to face his rival. The pointy ends of his spastic hair barely reached Matt's shoulders. "I've known her longer."

Matt took a step forward. "No, you haven't."

"Bridget's my responsibility."

She freaking hated that word. "Guys, I'm right here."

"I think Bridget can decide for herself," Matt said, ignoring her. "Who she wants to take her home."

This was ridiculous. "Yes, Bridget can," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "And she chooses neither."

They turned to her at the same time. "Huh?"

"Yeah. Parish business, remember? I need to go."

Peter grabbed her arm. "But-"

"Boys," Monsignor barked. His patience was maxed out. "We're on a bit of a schedule. So if you don't mind?" He draped an arm around each of them and aimed them back toward the school.

Peter stumbled, resisting the strong arm of Monsignor. He kept trying to wiggle free, like he was going to run back and sweep Bridget away before anyone could stop him. But Matt allowed himself to be led away, glancing back at Bridget as Monsignor shepherded him across the courtyard. There was a piece of Bridget that wanted to run after

him, to tell him everything that had been happening with

her, in case he was somehow able to shield her from the darkness that had overshadowed her life. But she couldn't. She couldn't let her guard down, show her weakness. She was tough, and she wasn't about to let Matt Quinn take care

of her.

Monsignor ushered the boys into the school building, then strode purposefully back to the car. "Well, Bridget? What will it be?"

Oh, that. With a sigh, Bridget opened the door and ducked into the car. She knew Monsignor was right; she had to do this.

"Excellent." Monsignor dashed to the driver's side with unexpected spryness.

Father Santos stuck his chubby face through the car door before Bridget could pull it closed. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, why not?" For some reason, his concern annoyed her.

He stared at her for a moment, then shrugged. "Never mind."

Bridget used her boot to push open the back door of the Crown Vic. She always got vaguely carsick riding in the backseat and that afternoon was no exception. It wasn't the twisting and turning so much as the painful stop-and-go motion, the Monsignor's braking technique pitching the heavy old lady car forward at every stop sign, traffic light, and crosswalk from St. Michael's Prep to the Marina.

Thankfully it was a silent ride, so Bridget could focus all of her attention on not blowing chunks in the backseat of Monsignor Renault's car. Not that anyone would have noticed. Monsignor and Father Santos were too preoccupied with ignoring each other to pay any attention to their captive.

Captive. Okay, maybe she was being a little dramatic. After all, it had been her choice. But then why did she feel like she was there against her will?

"Um, are you sure you're okay, Bridget?" Father Santos said from the sidewalk.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you've been sitting in the car for five minutes."

"Oh. Right." She scooted across the seat and slid out onto the street.

For the first time Bridget noticed where they were: a store on a side street off the busy Marina shopping district. It was one of the newer buildings, constructed after the Loma Prieta earthquake destroyed huge parts of the neighborhood. There were three stories of apartments stacked above the main floor, all with the traditional paneled bay windows that marked even the new additions to San Francisco architecture, and there was some sort of shop below, its facade of floor-to-ceiling windows painted with garish bubble-gum pink Victorian lettering.

Bridget had banished the demons in the twins' bedroom. She'd liberated old Mrs. Long. But she'd never faced- "Mrs. Pickleman's Tiny Princess Doll Shoppe?" she said. "Please tell me we're going to an apartment upstairs."

Monsignor Renault gripped her shoulder as if he thought she might make a break for it. "No, this is it."

"A doll shop?"

Oh, shit.

Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit.

There was nothing creepier in the whole wide world than dolls. Even as a kid Bridget couldn't handle the porcelain-faced little freaks her grandma sent her. She'd stuff them into the bottom of her toy chest, where the moonlight couldn't reflect off their beady glass eyes while she slept-eyes that seemed to follow her around the room, just waiting for her to turn her back before the dolls leaped off the shelf to throttle her with their wee cold hands.

Monsignor gave Bridget a nudge, and she stumbled forward. Why couldn't she have said no and meant it?

He pushed open the glass door, tripping an old-fashioned bell that hung overhead. Its high-pitched tinkling was like a death knell.

Bridget froze just inside the doorway. Facing her was a display case populated by old, withered dolls. They were bald, sort of, hair painted on their freaky little wooden skulls. They wore varieties of period clothes-some kind of Old West-y, some more turn of the century-all with a similar look on their faces: painted eyes staring straight ahead, lips puckered and slightly flared like they were cooing. Most of them were chipped, the flesh-colored paint flaking off their faces, and they sat at odd angles, leaning on one another for support like an infant leper colony.

Right in the middle of the case sat the largest doll, a Little House on the Prairie-ish thing whose wooden face looked like it had been mauled by a dog. Bridget glanced away from the doll, then froze. She could have sworn the thing moved. Her heart pounded as she tentatively stepped back in front of the case and bent down so her face was level with the doll. This time there was no mistake.

The doll winked at her.

In a panic, Bridget spun around for the door but found herself staring at a wall of dolls. To her left, to her right, all four walls were lined with similar glass cases, packed to the brim with round-faced dolls. Plastic, porcelain, swaddled like infants, dressed like fairy queens and Disney princesses. Caucasian, black, Hispanic, Asian-a United Nations of horror.

Bridget shivered. Of course this place was infested with demons. Of course it was. This was Hell.

"Monsignor, I'm so glad you're here." A woman rushed forward. She had wavy black hair and wore a black turtleneck, skirt, and tights, with painfully red lipstick smeared across her mouth. She looked more late-nineties goth than fussy doll shop owner.

"Of course, Ms. Laveau."

"Papa said if anyone could help, it would be you."

"We'll see what we can do."

"The noises have gotten more . . ." Ms. Laveau passed a hand over her hair. "Violent."

Monsignor nodded. "I see. Still only at night?"

Ms. Laveau nodded. "I'm sorry you couldn't witness it yourself when you were here last week, but I noted the times like you suggested." She handed him a piece of notepaper.

"Hmm. Sunset and three o'clock in the morning?" Monsignor asked with raised eyebrows.

Father Santos whistled.

"Is that bad?" Ms. Laveau asked. Her voice was breathless.

Monsignor placed a hand on her arm and turned her away from the younger priest. "Not at all, Emily. It will be fine."

Ms. Laveau caught sight of Bridget huddling near the door. The red lips bent into a frown. "I'm sorry, the store is closed."

"Bridget is with us," Monsignor said with a nod.

Yes, I'm with them, Bridget thought. Aren't I just the luckiest girl in the world?

Ms. Laveau glanced at Monsignor, who nodded in a reassuring manner. "Never fear, Ms. Laveau. Bridget's done this kind of thing before."

Bridget swallowed hard and forced a smile in an attempt to look like she wasn't about to pee in her pants.

"Oh." Ms. Laveau sounded disappointed. "I guess . . . whatever you suggest, Monsignor."

Monsignor inclined his head. "Thank you."

Ms. Laveau watched with wide eyes as Father Santos began to assemble the candles and sacramentals on the main counter. "What shall I do?"

"I recommend you go and get a cup of coffee," Monsignor said. "Or maybe dinner with a friend?"

Ms. Laveau's face fell. "I don't get to stay?"

Great. One of those amateur ghost hunter chicks. She probably had at least one set of tarot cards and a Ouija board stashed in her apartment.

"I'm afraid you might complicate the situation." Monsignor led Ms. Laveau expertly toward the door. "For a successful, er, blessing, we need to have only professionals present." Ms. Laveau was about to protest, but with a tinkling of the bell, Monsignor had maneuvered her out the door. "I'll give you a call when we're finished."

Bridget couldn't help but smile at how Monsignor handled Ms. Laveau. Too easy.

Now if only the doll shop was the same.

Fourteen.

FATHER SANTOS HAD ALREADY PREPARED the room. White candles blazed on the counter next to the cash register; their orange-and-yellow flames reflected in the endless glass display cases, making the entire shop look like it was ablaze. Decanters of holy water and oil stood valiantly side by side, and a stripe of salt lay across the back entrance, with a small pile in each corner of the shop.