Father Santos laughed nervously. "Yes, well, Semyaza and his angels were banished for all eternity, where they became Satan's kings of Hell."

Bridget had to stifle a yawn. Her head was starting to spin with all the biblical nerdery. "Okay, sure." Why not?

He smiled in understanding. "Don't worry, this is where it gets interesting."

Bridget sure hoped so.

"According to the apocryphal books of the Bible, Semyaza and his followers were known as the Watchers."

Bridget sat upright in her chair. That was not what she'd been expecting. "No way."

"Way. And their human mistresses bore a race of half angelhalf human giants known as the Nephilim."

"But why would the demons in the doll shop accuse me of being a fallen angel? It doesn't make any sense."

"I'm getting there. The Nephilim were evil, and they spread their corruption throughout the world of man. Eventually, God sent a great flood to rid the Earth of the Nephilim, but . . ." Father Santos carefully turned over the first loose page of the Skellig Manuscript and pointed to a line on the next page. "According to this, the Nephilim survived and remained loyal to their banished forefathers. To this day, they await the opportunity to summon the kings of Hell to Earth and take revenge upon God for their banishment."

Bridget was getting a little lost. "And that's bad, right?"

Father Santos cocked his head to one side. "Yes, that would be bad."

"Oh. Okay, got it."

"Here is where you come in."

Bridget grimaced. "If you tell me I'm in that book, I'm going to throw up on this desk right now."

"Heh." Again Father Santos carefully flipped another page of the manuscript. "Some of the Watchers," he continued, "showed repentance for their lust and wished to make amends to God. But an angel, once fallen from grace, cannot repent his sins. Instead, God took pity on their offspring. He separated the Nephilim into two groups: the Emim, descendants of the unrepentant fallen angels, and the Watchers, the children of the penitent angels tasked to succeed where their fathers had failed. God granted certain powers-the touch of God-to the Watchers, which allowed them to hold dominion over the Emim. It was their job to prevent the Emim from summoning their demon forefathers from Hell."

It all sounded so ridiculous. Bridget laughed out loud.

Father Santos looked hurt. "What's so funny?"

"You're trying to tell me that I'm part angel? Is that it?"

Father Santos laced his chubby fingers together. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life."

"How do you figure?"

"Look, that's a cool story and all, but I don't believe I'm the latest in a line of biblical demon slayers. That's a little too Buffy for me, okay?"

"Then how do you explain what has been happening to you?"

Hormones. Depression. Maybe she was crazy? Any of those options made more sense than Father Santos's story.

"You can't explain it, can you?"

Bridget threw up her hands. "But it doesn't even make sense! This is like a fairy tale, a bedtime story." She pointed at the Skellig Manuscript. "Things like this don't happen."

Father Santos pursed his lips and flipped to another page in the manuscript. "Oh, really? Then how do you explain this?"

Bridget followed his white-clad finger to the next page of the manuscript. It was a map, supposedly of Europe, Asia, and Africa, as best she could tell, though the topography was all wrong. Several of the land masses were labeled with titles Bridget didn't recognize, with arrows coming from the area around the Holy Land and sweeping north, south, and east.

"This is an eighth-century map of the known world, showing emigration patterns out of the Holy Land. The Emim did not care to be held in check by their cousins. Though they could not physically touch or harm the Watchers, they could use their influence over men against them. The Emim raised human armies that slaughtered hundreds of Watchers. The surviving Watchers fled, scattering themselves throughout the barely habitable regions of the world, forgetting much of who and what they were in the process. Nordic Europe, the barren deserts of Africa, the northern plains of China."

"China?" Bridget gaped.

"Yes," Father Santos said, flipping to the last of the manuscript pages. "The line of Watchers, listed here by their clan names. How's your Latin?"

Bridget cringed.

"Then I'll translate." Father Santos didn't even look at the page; he apparently had the manuscript memorized. "A tribe of Watchers moved to the east, to the kingdom known as Han, to the protection of the ruler of the Han, Emperor Gaozu, also known as Liu Bang."

Liu? "But that would mean my dad . . ." Her voice faltered.

Memories flooded her mind: her dad asking if she ever heard monsters in her room at night, reminding her if she ever had anything she needed to talk about, something she didn't understand, that she could always come to him. And her bracelet. That damned charm bracelet, which was, apparently, an amulet of exorcists going back a couple hundred years. Had he known what she was? Had he known because he had the same power?

"He would have told me," she said at last.

"Not necessarily. You only discovered your talents in the face of a demonic infestation, which is rare, to say the least. It's difficult to estimate how many Watchers never have an experience like that. Also, we aren't entirely sure whether the powers exist in each generation or only manifest randomly throughout a family line."

Bridget gripped the arm of the chair. Her hands trembled.

"He was k-killed last year," Father Santos said gently. "Wasn't he?"

"Killed" was an insult. "Murdered."

"Er, yes. By the man who broke into the sanctuary here at St. Michael's?"

Milton Undermeyer. Bridget nodded.

"Your father h-h-had seen Mr. Undermeyer on several occasions, and was in the process of diagnosing his mental capacities, correct?"

Father Santos knew way too much about the Undermeyer case for someone who had just shown up from the Vatican. It made her nervous.

"What's your point?" she said.

Father Santos stared at her with his small, dark eyes. "Schizophrenia is a common misdiagnosis for demonic possession. If your father was a, well . . . was like yourself, don't you think it rather odd that his death should coincide with such a case?"

"But-"

"Have you ever wondered why Milton Undermeyer, the school janitor, would have had to break into the church? He had a key to every door at St. Michael's."

"He was crazy."

"Or maybe he was possessed. And he knew something, something he never told anyone else. Something that made him break into the church that night."

Penemuel's words flooded her mind. "The messenger was sent. His warning was not delivered. You must find the messenger." A message from her dad. A message from a Watcher.

Bridget closed her eyes. Could she really deny it? Could she really keep pretending that this wasn't happening?

"They called me a traitor," she said.

"Who did?"

"The demons at the doll shop. This is what they meant." She felt trapped. "I'm a traitor because I'm one of them. I'm a demon too."

"That's not true."

Bridget jumped to her feet. "Isn't it? If you're right, then we come from the same source, those demons and me."

Father Santos yanked at his collar. "Well . . ."

"So this thing I can do? This ability that you and Monsignor seem to think is so great? It's a big hot mess for me. Do you get that?"

"Bridget, let's not jump to conclusions."

"Monsignor said that demons are evil. Pure evil. Like, they have no other goal than spreading that evil through our world. How am I not a part of that?"

Father Santos sighed. "Honestly? I don't know." He leaned back in his chair and drew a hand over his brow. "But since you have the ability to banish evil from our world, it would make sense that you're not a part of it."

Like any of this made sense.

"Bridget, I know this is all very difficult, but you have to remember: You make your own choices, your own destiny. If you work against evil, against the powers of darkness in our world, it doesn't matter much who your ancestors were."

Easy for him to say. She seriously doubted that Mr. and Mrs. Santos had a demonic great-grandfather in the family tree.

"Speaking of which," Father Santos said. He reached into his drawer and pulled out a Xeroxed piece of paper. "Maybe you can help me with this."

Bridget cast her eyes over the page. Handwriting, all caps, small and neat.

"It's what the dolls were chanting in the shop," he said. "What I could catch of it before they started launching themselves at my head."

"It's just gibberish."

"Demons rarely speak gibberish."

Bridget leaned forward and squinted at the words. "'Potent dither trusts.' Yeah, reads just like Shakespeare."

"Take it home. Read it over. Maybe something you heard will shed some light on this. I have a feeling it's important."

"Sure." Wasn't it always?

The bell rang and Bridget slowly rose to her feet, absently shoving the paper into her backpack. Once again, Father Santos was trying to get information out of her. Information she didn't have. Whatever. None of it mattered. Watchers, demons, lost tribes, Father Santos's demonic transcriptions. They could all take a flying leap as far as she was concerned.

"Bridget?"

"I said I'd look at it, okay?"

"I'm s-sorry," Father Santos stuttered.

Yeah, Bridget thought as she trudged back to the school building. Everybody was sorry. Sorry was easy. Sorry was for suckers.

Eighteen.

BRIDGET SIFTED THROUGH A SALE rack of dresses. "I can't believe I'm doing this." It was so not how she wanted to be spending her Saturday.

"I can't believe you waited until the last minute to pick out something to wear." Hector held up a lime green strapless dress with a bedazzled bodice. "Too much?"

Bridget snorted. "Not for you."

"Too bad I don't have a date for Winter Formal."

Bridget grimaced. "Sorry about the concert. I forgot they were the same night."

"Doesn't matter. You're grounded until the end of time anyway."

"True."

"Except where Mr. Dreamy Hazel Eyes is concerned."

"Barf."

Hector sauntered to the other side of the rack and dramatically flipped hangers back and forth. "No worries. Besides, I already have a date."

Bridget's jaw dropped. "What?"

"Don't look so surprised, beyotch."

"Let me guess, the barista from Grinds?"

Hector smiled and looked coy. "Maybe."

"Awesome." Bridget beamed from ear to ear. It was the first date Hector'd had since she'd known him. Maybe this would help him get over his hopeless crush on Brad. "I'm so happy for you."

"Wait till after the concert, then you can help me pick out engagement rings, okay?"

"Fine." Bridget moved to another rack. "Well, at least one of us will be having fun tonight."