"No!" Bridget yelled out loud.

"Bridge?"

Bridget spun wildly around the gym, a kaleidoscope of streamers and swirling lights, flailing arms and spinning bodies. Another murder. There was about to be another murder, and only she could stop it. All she had to do was figure out where the voices were coming from.

Bridget ran for the back door of the gym into the south courtyard of St. Michael's Prep. The whole courtyard was awash in strange, dancing lights-blues and greens, reds and purples. Bridget looked up and saw that the stained glass windows of the church looked alive as light flickered and lapped at their panes.

Matt trotted up behind her. "Bridget, what the hell is going on?"

She held up a hand. "Shh!"

"Don't shush me. Look, I told you I didn't hear anything."

"You wouldn't." God what was he going to think of her? A complete loony? Shake it off, Bridget. It doesn't matter. She had to find where the voices were coming from.

"Blood! Blood! Blood! The Master demands blood!"

The church.

She ran for the side door of the church, but Matt grabbed her arm. "Where are you going?"

"The church. Matt, please, you have to let me go. Something terrible is going to happen."

"In the church?"

"I think someone's about to be murdered."

"Murdered?"

"I know you think I'm crazy, but you have to believe me."

Matt forced a laugh. "Bridge, come on. How could you possibly know-"

A bloodcurdling scream pierced the courtyard.

Without a word Matt and Bridget sprinted toward the church. Matt reached the door first and twisted the handle, but the door was locked. Bridget veered right and made for the door to the sacristy. She yanked it open and ran through the priests' dressing area, out onto the altar.

"Not enough! Not enough! Not enough hatred! Not enough pain for the Master!" the voices wailed in agony.

The atmosphere inside the church was heavy and thick. There were hundreds of candles lit, standing all around the altar, like she'd interrupted some kind of ritual. Footsteps echoed through the church, and somewhere near the front entrance, a door opened, sending a gust of wind racing through the sanctuary. It snuffed out the candles and plummeted the church into darkness.

"You have failed. You have failed the Master!" The demons were losing power, their numbers dwindling with the wispy smoke of the extinguished candles, their voices fading into the darkness. "Failed, failed, failed, failed, failed."

The oppressive energy in the church evaporated. The entities were gone, but what had they been talking about? Slit his throat? Spill his blood? Bridget's eyes had not yet adjusted to the dark, but there had to be someone here, someone in danger. She stepped forward cautiously, arms reaching out in front of her in the blackness. She barely made it three steps before her silver heels slipped in something on the slick marble floor.

A moonbeam streamed through the stained glass window, illuminating a figure on the ground just blow the tabernacle. Lying in a pool of dark, shiny liquid-his throat slit from ear to ear and a twisted look of horror on his face-was Peter Kim.

The next hour was a blur. Bridget felt like she was swimming through a pool of Jell-O. Her limbs were heavy: Simply lifting an arm or putting one foot in front of the other took three times as much strength as usual.

The world slowed down. There had been another scream, that she knew for sure. She was pretty sure the strangled cry came from her own throat, though honestly she couldn't be sure. She remembered someone's arm around her waist, pulling her away from the blood-soaked body of her friend. Matt's arm, probably, though again she was only vaguely aware of it.

Then there had been more people, more screams, more noise. She wasn't sure how, but Bridget found herself outside in the damp, cold air. The fog had rolled in again, a dense, gooey bank of the stuff that muted the lights of the school, the murmur of voices, the dull thud of feet running to and fro, and the eventual wail of sirens. The fog was appropriate, somehow. The buildings came and went from view with the varying gusts and billows. People seemed to appear from nowhere, then disappear once more. Nothing felt solid, nothing real. Maybe it had all been a dream. Maybe she'd never gone to the dance at all. Maybe.

Arms. She remembered a pair of strong arms around her, keeping everyone at bay, the occasional sharp word to someone who wanted to ask her a question. Then soothing words. "It's okay, Bridge. It's okay. It's not your fault."

Did she think it was her fault? Maybe. Those text messages on her phone. She should have answered him, told him to calm down, told him she wasn't going on a date, lied to him. How had Peter ended up at the Church of St. Michael? Had he come to spy on her? To confront her and Matt? That anger and rage she'd seen recently-that wasn't the Peter Kim she knew. What had come over him?

"Shh. It's not your fault, Bridge. It's not."

"Yes, it is," a voice sobbed. Her voice. "You don't know. You don't understand."

The police arrived, a whole army of them. They scurried through the courtyard, in and out of the church, the gym, and the school like ants on a feeding frenzy. Sergeant Quinn was there. He trembled when he hugged her.

She wanted to sink down onto the ground, curl up in a ball, and cry, but there were detectives who wanted to ask her questions, and Bridget was the only one who could help. Answers to their questions, at least, were easy.

"You found the body?"

"Yes."

"Did you know the victim?"

"Yes.

"His name?"

"Peter Kim."

"Why did you go into the church?"

"Heard a scream."

"Did you see anyone else?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Matt had been pulled away for questioning of his own. And Bridget felt naked without his arm around her waist. Still the questions came. Still her voice answered. But she was tired. So tired.

Someone patted her shoulder, and then there was a hand on her arm. Not Matt this time, but it was comforting all the same. Someone had come to rescue her.

"This way, Bridget," Monsignor Renault said. "Let's get you out of here."

Twenty-Two.

BRIDGET SHIVERED UNCONTROLLABLY. HER TEETH chattered and her palms were damp. Beneath the thin, shimmery fabric of her dress, her skin was covered in goose pimples. Only she wasn't cold. Quite the opposite. As she sat next to Father Santos in Monsignor Renault's office, she felt as if she were running a fever.

"This is a very serious situation," Monsignor was saying. Bridget could barely hear him over the chattering of her own teeth. "Very serious."

Bridget nodded. Her brain couldn't form a word to save her life.

"The police will conduct a thorough investigation?" Father Santos said.

"Quite," Monsignor replied.

"They'll see the pattern, won't they? This murder and that of Dr. Liu?"

A shock went through Bridget's body. She thought of Sergeant Quinn as he gripped her by the shoulders and looked her dead in the eye. He'd thought the same thing.

"A copycat killer, in all likelihood," Monsignor Renault said.

"I doubt they'll find anything," Father Santos continued. "Just like last time. No murder weapon, no evidence. Just a corpse."

Monsignor glanced at Bridget. "Hmm. Um, Father Santos . . ."

"And there will be days of questions. The boy's body was-"

"Peter," Bridget said, her voice raspy and coarse. "His name was Peter."

Father Santos leaned forward in his chair to look Bridget in the face. She didn't even glance his way, just continued to stare at the Pieta paperweight on Monsignor's desk.

"I'm sorry," Father Santos said, leaning back again. "Peter's body, found in that condition and with the symbols drawn in a circle around his body. There are bound to be questions about the religious implications of such a death."

"Murder," Bridget corrected him. They might as well call it what it was.

"Murder," Father Santos repeated.

"Yes, questions." Monsignor rested his elbows on his desk and twirled the silver ring absently around his finger. "They won't find what they are looking for that way."

"And, of course, Bridget will be their focus."

Monsignor tilted his head. "I'm sorry?"

"The police. They'll want to talk to Bridget again. After all, she's the link between these two murders."

Bridget stared straight ahead. She was a link between the murders. Of course. Alexa had said it; now Father Santos too. Just like possessions, death followed her.

Monsignor slammed his fist down on the desk. "Father Santos. Bridget is not responsible for these murders, do you understand? And I will not sit here and listen to any suggestion to the contrary."

"O-o-o-oh, yes. Of . . . of course." Father Santos wrung his hands in his lap. "I just wanted . . . I mean . . ."

"Bridget," Monsignor said softly. "Let's discuss what you saw tonight. If you're okay to talk about it again."

It was kind of him to change the subject, and she was eager to tell him what he wanted to know. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"Aside from what you told the police, was there anything else you remember?"

"Um . . . ," she started.

Father Santos shifted in his chair to face Bridget. "Was there anything you heard in the sanctuary? Voices? Sounds? Something familiar, perhaps? Or something that happened before that you might see in a new light now?"

Bridget opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. She was about to tell them about Penemuel when the warning message of the demon dolls popped into her head. Don't trust the priest. She glanced at Monsignor. She wanted to confide in him, but not here. Not in front of Father Santos.

"I know it was quite a shock," Father Santos continued. He seemed intent on getting some sort of answer out of her. "If you aren't sure, maybe we should go back and check again? Maybe something in the church will trigger a memory?"

Why was he questioning her?

"I'm sure Bridget would tell us if she heard anything relevant."

"Yes," Father Santos said quietly. "I'm sure."

"Let us recap then, shall we?" Monsignor said. "Bridget must be exhausted, and I'm sure she would prefer to be home with her family."

Bridget smiled at Monsignor. That was exactly what she wanted.

"We've had three instances of demonic infestation in just over a month, and now this murder with apparent satanic overtones. We believe these events are related?"

"Most definitely," Father Santos said.

Monsignor nodded. "I agree. But we also know that these demons have no physicality unless they are attached to a human body, and even then, to undertake a murder of this magnitude, it would have to be the strongest, most thoroughly acquiescent case of possession I've ever seen."

"True," Father Santos said.

"So we are left with the reality that a human such as you"-he pointed to Father Santos-"or I has perpetrated this crime."

"Yes," Father Santos said quickly. "But it would have to be someone with an intimate knowledge of the benefits of such a murder."

Bridget turned on him. "Benefits? What's the benefit of murdering a fifteen-year-old science whiz? What were they going to do, harvest his brain?"

"N-no," Father Santos said. "I was thinking more of his emotions."

"What about them?"

"Er." Father Santos pulled at his collar with his index finger. "You and Peter. I mean, you two. I mean, he . . ."

His voice died, but Bridget wasn't going to make this easy on him. "Yes?"

"He had a very strong attachment to you," he said at last. "Correct?"