"Potent dither trusts."

From amid the roar of incessant chanting, Bridget caught a distinct voice calling her name. Her full name, just like her mom did when Bridget was in a metric ton of trouble.

"Bridget Yueling Liu."

Bridget spun around and found herself facing the display case of historic dolls. Her stomach sank as she watched the Little House on the Prairie doll-the one that had winked at her-stand up and place its wooden hands against the glass.

"Bridget Yueling Liu," the doll repeated.

"How did you know my name?"

The doll inclined its head. "He told me."

"Who? Your master?"

The doll shuddered but didn't answer.

"Okay." Not the talkative type, this one. "Not your master?"

"I have a message," the doll said.

It was the first time Bridget had heard a demon refer to itself in the singular. This entity felt different from the rest, kind of like the last demon who inhabited Mrs. Long-the one who had given her a cryptic warning. This demon had a distinct voice and personality, separate from the collective.

"Who are you?" she asked. "What is your name?"

Again, the doll was silent. Not that it mattered. The name was already forming in Bridget's mind.

"Penemuel," Bridget said hesitantly.

The doll didn't even pause. "I have a message for Bridget Yueling Liu."

"Fine. What is it?"

"The messenger was sent. His warning was not delivered. You must find the messenger."

That was a new one. "Messenger?"

"You must find the messenger."

"I don't understand."

With a shrill cry, the doll thrust its wooden arm into the case, cracking the glass door. "YOU MUST FIND THE MESSENGER!"

All right, all right. Don't argue with the possessed doll, Bridge. She fought back her confusion and her fear and tried to concentrate on what Penemuel was saying. "Okay, find the messenger. How?"

The voice turned rigid and struggled to get the next word out. "Me-yer. Un-der. Un-der. Me-yer."

Bridget froze. Milton Undermeyer.

The man who had killed her father.

"Un-der. Me-yer."

"Who told you this?" she asked, panic welling up. "Who sent you?"

"Bridget Yueling Liu. He calls you Pumpkin Bunny. He says you will know."

"No!" she screamed. Impossible. How could her dad be sending messages through a demon? That would mean . . . She felt sick to her stomach. That would mean he was where they were. That would mean he was in Hell. No, no, no! She refused to believe it.

The chanting in the shop rose to a fever pitch as the dolls continued to launch themselves against their cases. From around the room, Bridget heard the smashing of glass and a series of bloodcurdling screams as, one by one, the dolls hurled themselves at Bridget and the priests.

Bridget shielded her face with her arm as a Madame Alexander princess and two American Girls went flying past her head. "How did you know that? Who told you?"

"Pothered tints strut."

"Spins truth tottered."

"Thunder totters spit."

"Find the messenger." With a fierce jab, Penemuel sent its tiny arm through the display case, lodging it in the splintered glass.

"Potent dither trusts."

"Where is my father?" Bridget screamed.

Penemuel lifted its head to Heaven. "My penance is done."

Bridget slapped her hands to the glass case against the wooden nub of Penemuel's hand. "Tell me where he is!"

"I am released!"

The doll lifted up off its shelf, shuddered once as Mrs. Long had done, then crumpled, lifeless.

"Bridget, what is going on? What are you doing?" Monsignor's voice swirled through the chaos of the shop where piles of broken, mangled dolls lay twitching on the floor. "You need to finish the banishment."

Bridget didn't care, not about the demons or Monsignor or the carnage that was Ms. Laveau's creepy little store. She only cared about what Penemuel had told her. A message from her dad to find Milton Undermeyer. She felt like she'd been kicked in the gut with her own steel-toed boots.

"Bridget!" She could barely hear Monsignor. The clamor had escalated, and the roar of voices encircled the room like a tornado. She needed to focus. Vade retro satana.

"I banish you," she said halfheartedly.

The demons screeched in pain as the familiar tingle raced up Bridget's arms and legs, strengthening her voice.

"I banish you from these dolls, from this shop, from this world."

"No! No! Have mercy, little girl. Mercy!"

"Get out," she repeated. The energy intensified in her stomach and her voice was a frightening roar. "Get out!"

"The Emim will release us. You will feel our wrath. You cannot keep us out forever!"

Bridget held her hands in front of her. They were hot, searing, the warmth shooting up through her wrists and arms. "Maybe." She laughed drily. "But I can try."

She felt the weight of them as she threw her hands forward, concentrating on the demons themselves. "Vade retro satana! I banish you."

There was a final shriek, then Bridget watched with satisfaction as a hundred dolls collapsed into silence.

Fifteen.

"SO ARE YOU GOING TO tell me what's going on or am I going to have to start making stuff up?"

Bridget froze midbite into her grilled cheese sandwich and slowly looked across the table at Hector. His diet snack bar and celery sticks lay untouched on top of his lunch bag. His arms were folded across his chest, and his left eyebrow kinked at a sharp angle. Uh-oh. Hector meant business.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Really?"

Flail. Peter must have spilled about her "official parish business" after school yesterday. How was she going to explain it?

"You were going to tell me when that you asked hunky Matt Quinn to the Winter Formal?"

Bridget's whole body relaxed. Oh, that. "It just sort of-"

"Look, if we're going to be friends, you have to text me epic life events like this immediately. Like, within twenty seconds of the occurrence immediately. Get it? I have a reputation to maintain, and how would it look if I'm getting my information from-" He dropped his voice. "Peter?"

Bridget winced. "You heard it from Peter?"

"Heard it?" Hector snorted. "More like I got dragged into the insanity. He's really freaking out."

"Yeah." Bridget remembered the wild look in Peter's eyes when he confronted her in the hallway, the angry line of his jaw when he challenged Matt in the parking lot. "I know."

"He cornered me in English this morning. Kept asking if I knew anything about it, rambling on and on about how you lied to him. Dude, seriously scary."

"Yeah," Bridget repeated, sinking her head into her hands. "I know."

"I mean, not that I blame you. I'd ask Mr. Sexy Eyes Baseball Player to the dance myself if I thought I had a chance. But did you have to go and do it after you turned Peter down . . .

what was it, three times?"

Bridget groaned. "Five."

"Five? Daaaaaaamn."

Bridget snapped her head up. "Okay, but what was I supposed to do? Go with Peter? And besides, it's not like I asked Matt to go with me."

Hector pursed his lips. "Really? Then how did it happen?"

"Um . . ." Why was everyone so intent on knowing how Matt ended up as her date to the Winter Formal? It just happened, people. Get over it.

Hector's eyes flicked off Bridget's face to something behind her. He pulled his hand to his mouth. "Peter," he said through a fake cough, a second before Peter Kim dropped his lunch tray down next to Bridget.

"Hey, Peter," she said, trying to sound casual. Pretty much anything out of his mouth at this point was going to be a disaster. She held her breath and waited for the worst.

"Hector," Peter said through clenched teeth.

"Uh . . ." Hector's eyes darted from Peter to Bridget, then back. "Hey, man."

Peter slowly unwrapped his spork-napkin packet. "How did you do on the algebra test today?"

Oh, so that was it? Peter was going to ignore her? Bridget's shoulders relaxed. Finally something was going her way for a freaking change.

"Okay, I guess," Hector said.

Peter stabbed at his fruit compote. "Good."

Silence descended upon their corner of the table. Bridget amused herself by switching between Hector's uncomfortable fidgeting and Peter's metered eating as he slowly lifted bits of his lunch into his mouth, chewed five times, and swallowed. He was like a robot, not even registering whether he was ingesting a piece of bean-and-cheese burrito or a wilted lettuce leaf. Peter just continued to lift the spork from plate to mouth while his eyes remained fixed on the table. It was mesmerizing and horrifying at the same time.

"Why so quiet?" Brad slid his tray down the table and climbed a gangly leg over the bench. "You guys have a fight or something?"

"Beats the hell out of me," Hector murmured.

"Hello, Brad," Peter said with the same mechanical Stepford Wives voice. "How are you today?"

"Dude," Brad asked. "Are you okay?"

"Perfectly well, thank you."

Brad looked to Hector, who just shook his head, and then to Bridget. "Liu, what's going on with him?"

"I'm sorry," Peter said, dropping his spork to his tray. He turned his head from side to side, looking straight through Bridget as if he didn't see her at all. "To whom are you speaking?"

Brad pulled his head back. "Are you serious?"