"To Destroy the Evil That Lies Within"

"Too bad you can't destroy this evil," Bridget said, nodding her head toward the choir as she leaned against the smooth stone of the church wall.

"Does she not think so?" a voice whispered.

Bridget spun around. Was someone else in the church?

Behind her lay an empty expanse of uniform wooden pews.

"The humans are fools. This we know, Koras."

No, not here. There couldn't be demons here. This was a church.

"You are wise, Mecadriel." The second voice was right on top of her, clearly discernible above the music.

"But have you heard?" the second voice continued. "There is a Watcher now."

Bridget froze. A Watcher? That's what the dolls had called her: a Watcher and a traitor.

"Hallelujah! Hallelujah!"

"The Master's servants will take care of the Watcher, as they have done for centuries."

"Yes, Mecadriel. Yes. There will be much enjoyment."

Bridget ran down the aisle, scanning pews to the very back of the church to make sure there was no one hiding. Then she threw open the doors of the rear confessional-first the two penitents' doors, then she cracked the priest's door, just to make sure it was empty. There had to be someone here messing with her. Had to.

"Bridget Liu!"

She slammed the confessional door. From the altar, Mr. Vincent, Ms. Templeton, and the entire show choir were staring at her.

"What are you doing?"

"Um, nothing?"

"Well, if you've finished exploring back there, could you please take your place for the carols medley?"

Bridget felt the heat rise from her chest as she trotted back up to the piano. Ms. Templeton had already packed away her binders, leaving Bridget's sheet music on the piano.

Maybe she was imagining it. Maybe she was sleep deprived. She pushed the invisible voices from her mind and flipped through her pages, making sure they were all in order, then prepped and looked expectantly at Mr. Vincent.

At his downbeat Bridget launched into the relatively simple accompaniment for "Angels We Have Heard on High." She focused on the music. This was a church, after all, a place of God. They couldn't be here. They couldn't, they couldn't, they couldn't.

The whispers exploded overhead, singing along to the carol in a cacophony of shrieks.

"Gloria in excelsis Luciferi."

"No!" Bridget pushed away from the keyboard, toppled off the bench, and cracked her head against the hard marble of the altar floor.

The voices stopped.

Hector's hand was on her shoulder, helping her to her feet. "Bridget? What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry. I-I have to . . ." She stumbled backward, her eyes darting about the altar. They were here. How could they be here?

"You have to what?" Mr. Vincent said.

Everyone stared at her, of course, like she'd just grown a second head. But she didn't care. There was something evil in the church, something that shouldn't, by the laws of Heaven and Hell, be there.

The dark interior of the sanctuary began to spin before her, the walls skewing and stretching from vertical. As she staggered away from the piano, the angels in the stained glass windows above the altar turned to her with cold grins.

"Bridge?" Hector's voice broke through her malaise, bringing the choir back into focus. His face was pale, his eyes lacked their usual sparkle. "Are you okay?"

Her hands were clammy, and she could feel droplets of sweat cascade down her back. "I'm not . . . I don't . . ."

"You look pale. Maybe you should go to the nurse's office?"

A flick of dense auburn curls from the back row of the choir caught Bridget's attention, and she found a pair of deep green eyes, narrow as a cat's, fixed on her. Then Alexa tilted her head ever so slightly, her lovely fringe of lashes obscuring her eyes altogether.

"Heard us. Heard us. The dark one heard us."

"Impossible, the Master says he knows all who hear."

"Look at her! She knows. She knows!"

With a sharp intake of breath, those piercing eyes flew open.

Alexa heard the voices too.

"I gotta go." Bridget grabbed her backpack and ran.

Seventeen.

BRIDGET SPRINTED OUT THE SIDE door of the church, down the granite stairs into the school courtyard. Demons in the church? That was impossible, right? Right?

She stopped running and gulped deep breaths of crisp, damp air. Alexa had heard the voices too. She was sure of it. How could she and Alexa possibly be connected by those . . .

things?

She wanted to confront Alexa, but what was she going to do-march back into choir practice and demand to know why Alexa was hearing disembodied voices in a church? Yeah, that was a one-way ticket to the loony bin.

No, she needed answers. Now.

Bridget whirled around and made for the rectory, throwing the door open with such force that the crucifix in the entryway thumped against the wall in protest. She took the stairs two at a time and barged straight into Monsignor's office.

"Monsignor, I need to talk to-"

Father Santos was crouched behind Monsignor's desk. He shot to his feet as Bridget barreled through the door, his face bright red. "Bridget! W-what are you d-doing here?"

Bridget arched an eyebrow. "Me?"

"Yes, well. Yes, of course." Father Santos stepped out from behind Monsignor's desk. "I was just, er, retrieving a book. Yes, a book I lent Monsignor Renault."

"A book." There was no book in his hand, just a screwdriver he was trying desperately to shimmy up the sleeve of his jacket.

Father Santos cocked his head. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," she lied.

"D-did you need to speak with Monsignor? I believe he's with Ms. Laveau today, down at the doll shop."

Why was no one around when she needed them?

"Perhaps-perhaps I could be of some help?"

"Oh." Bridget stopped, taken aback. She hadn't thought to ask Father Santos, mostly because the last time they had a one-on-one, he had assaulted her. They'd just been having a normal conversation when he'd caught sight of her bracelet and lost his mind. A normal but totally weird conversation about the hand of God and . . . Whoa! That's where she'd heard about the Watchers first. Father Santos.

"Who are the Watchers?" she blurted out.

Father Santos's beady black eyes grew wide. "Has Monsignor mentioned them to you?"

"No."

"But someone has?"

"Yes."

Father Santos scratched his neck and scrunched up his face. "At the doll shop?"

Bridget nodded.

"How much time until your next class?"

Bridget glanced at the clock on the wall. "Fifteen minutes."

Father Santos nodded. "All right, then."

He walked straight out the door and across the hall. Not a word, not a gesture requesting her to follow. When he reached his office, he turned back and noticed she wasn't behind him.

"Well?" he asked with a sigh. "Do you want to know about the Watchers or not?"

Bridget cast a glance at Monsignor's desk. There was no doubt in her mind that Father Santos had been trying to get into the locked drawer, but why? The two priests didn't like each other, but what could Monsignor possibly have that would reduce Father Santos to breaking and entering?

He disappeared into his office. He could tell her what she needed to know, but did she really want to lock herself up in his office again? Or should she just wait for Monsignor?

Nope. This couldn't wait. She'd have to brave the multiple personalities of Father Santos.

Bridget heaved her backpack higher on her shoulder and followed the priest into his office.

"I'm going to tell you a story," Father Santos said when he was comfortably seated behind his desk.

Bridget rolled her eyes. Oh, wouldn't this be fun.

Father Santos held up a hand. "I know what you're thinking, but bear with me."

"Fine." Bridget slumped back in her chair and wondered if coming to him had been a mistake.

Father Santos swung his chair around to an antique cupboard against the wall. Bridget was pretty sure it hadn't been there during her last visit. He unlocked the cupboard with a tiny key and extracted a box: flat and wooden with a smooth, polished lid and a little brass latch on the side. Father Santos laid the box reverentially on his desk. He whipped out a pair of white cloth gloves, which he pulled on with great care, like a doctor about to go into surgery. Once he was sure the gloves were spotless, he opened the box and removed a plastic sleeve in which rested a collection of papers.

Father Santos slid the worn, yellowed pages from the plastic cover, and Bridget saw that their edges were jagged and frayed, as if they had been torn from a book, and they were written in a highly ornate, embellished scroll in what appeared to be Latin.

"Eighth century," Father Santos said, tracing the intricate border work with a gloved finger. "All that remains of the Skellig Manuscript, transcribed by the Augustinian monks of County Kerry. The Vatican obtained these after they were smuggled out of Ireland during Cromwell's invasion, and they have remained in the archives ever since."

"They just let you take this from the Vatican?" That didn't sound like the Catholic Church she knew.

Father Santos cleared his throat. "I, um, have special privileges."

"Right." Of the five-fingered discount variety. Great: he was weird, schizophrenic, and a klepto.

"As I was saying," Father Santos said quickly. "The Skellig Manuscript tells a very unique version of how a group of angels fell from grace, a version that had never been told before, and never since."

Bridget arched an eyebrow. "Hello, Catholic school? I've heard this about a bazillion times."

"Do you want me to tell you about the Watchers or not?"

"Fine."

"Good. Now there was the first fall, when Satan led a rebellion against God and was defeated by the Archangel Michael. That's the one you learned about in school, no doubt. But there was another fall from grace, a second fall. The angel Semyaza led two hundred angels to Earth, where they had, um, relations with human women."

"Ew."