"Release us!" Undermeyer cried.

Bridget stretched out her arm, desperate to touch Milton Undermeyer, but it was too late. The nurse had gotten the syringe into Undermeyer's leg, and he was already falling into unconsciousness. As the guards hauled her away, the last image she saw was the black, pleading eyes of Milton Undermeyer as they fluttered closed.

Twenty-Six.

"BRIDGET, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING back there?" Matt's face was red as he backed her up against the side of his truck.

"I don't . . ."

"I don't know" was what she meant to say, but she did know. She knew exactly what she was doing, but how could she explain it to him?

"You were hearing things that weren't there. Just like last night."

Bridget laughed. She couldn't help herself. "Oh, they were there."

Matt grabbed her by her shoulders, his eyes wild. "You had a conversation with something no one else could hear. And you sounded weird, like it wasn't really you."

"Yeah?" He was right, sort of. In the presence of the demons she felt different. "What did I sound like?"

Matt straightened up, his brows low over his hazel eyes as he tried to put it into words. "Your voice was deep and booming, like someone else was speaking through you. It scared the hell out of me, actually."

Bridget smiled. That was kind of sweet.

"Stop laughing, Bridget!"

"I wasn't laughing. I just, well . . . no one's mentioned that before."

"This has happened before?"

"Um . . ." Bridget swallowed hard. Of course it had happened before. Each time she encountered the demons, the feeling of power grew stronger, more tangible. And worse-Bridget found she was enjoying it.

Matt took a step back and ran a hand through his hair. "What's going on?" he repeated.

She hadn't told anyone other than Monsignor Renault, and that was only because he confronted her. Maybe it was time to share what had been going on. After all that Matt had already seen, he was the perfect confidant.

"Can we get something to eat?" Bridget said.

"Huh?"

Bridget pantomimed putting something into her mouth and chewing. "Food. There was a diner back in town, right?"

"Then you'll tell me?"

Bridget sighed. "Then I'll tell you."

Matt nodded and they got into the truck. Bridget noticed that his hand shook as he started the ignition.

The diner was mostly empty on a Sunday afternoon, just an elderly couple in a booth and two trucker types at the counter. Matt made a beeline for a booth tucked into the far corner.

The waitress was on them almost immediately, with a big, sunny smile that felt so out of place with their mood that Bridget almost laughed out loud.

"Can I get you kids something to drink?"

"Diet 7Up," Bridget said.

"We got Sprite."

"Whatever." Then, without even opening the menu, Bridget ordered her favorite. "And a grilled cheese on sourdough with fries."

"All righty then," the waitress said, turning to Matt. "I like a lady who knows what she wants. And you?"

"Same." Matt didn't even look at her, just fidgeted with the fork at his place setting, thumping it up and down on the laminate table.

Matt waited until the waitress had disappeared behind the counter. "Okay, spill it."

"Um . . ." Where the hell did she start? With Monsignor Renault it had been easy; he asked questions, and she answered them. But Matt didn't know exactly the world of hurt he was about to step into, and for a moment, Bridget was tongue-tied.

"Yeah?"

"So here's the thing," Bridget said. "This is all going to sound really, really weird. I mean, a level of weird that's not going to be easy for you to understand, okay?"

Matt tilted his head to one side. "Weirder than watching you talk to a crazy man like you were reading the thoughts in his head? Weirder than finding your friend murdered in the church last night?"

The boy made a good point. "Okay, fine. But just remember, you asked."

Her story flowed easier than she expected it to: the events at the Fergusons' house, her first meeting with Monsignor Renault, Mrs. Long, the doll shop, even her brother solving the anagram telling her not to trust the priest. It all came easily, quickly, like she couldn't wait to get the whole story out into the world.

Matt listened in silence. When she was done, she glanced up at him, hoping for an encouraging smile or a softness in his eye, something to indicate that he didn't think she was completely bat shit. But he just continued to stare at the napkin dispenser without saying a word.

Perfect. He thought she was crazy, delusional, or both. So much for honesty.

"So Undermeyer," Matt said hesitantly. "He's possessed by . . . by . . ."

"Demons. Yep." No reason to beat around the bush at this point.

"And you can communicate with them? Read their minds or something?"

"Something like that."

"Does that make you one of them?"

Good question. "I have no idea."

"How do you do it?"

Another good question, but at least one she had some semblance of an answer to. "Father Santos-"

"Was he the chubby little priest from last night?"

"Heh. Yeah." Bridget snorted.

The waitress plopped a pair of grilled cheese sandwiches and Diet Sprites on the table. "Here you go. Can I get you anything else?"

"No," Matt and Bridget said in unison.

The waitress pulled back like she'd been slapped. "Okay then. I'll just leave you two alone." Bridget heard her whistle low and long as she walked back to the kitchen.

"So Father Santos showed me this old manuscript from the Vatican," Bridget continued. "He said it was the only one of its kind and it tells the story of the Emim and the Watchers."

"Sounds like a comic book."

"Nerd."

"Crazy." Matt smiled at her. It wasn't his patented sparkly smile-just a hint of grin around the corners of his mouth-but it gave Bridget a warm, homey feeling inside.

"I don't remember all of it, but basically a bunch of angels fell from Heaven to have sex with mortal women and then got banished to Hell. Some of those angels repented, and God granted their half-mortal offspring special powers to control the offspring of the nonrepenting angels. The Watchers and the Emim."

Matt's eyes grew wide as Bridget took a huge bite of her sandwich, trailing a long strand of melted cheese away from her mouth. "Which one are you?"

"Watcher. I think we're supposed to be the good guys."

"Supposed to be?"

Bridget dropped her sandwich on her plate. "Look, I don't know. All I've got is two priests who, according to a demon messenger, I'm not supposed to trust. It's not like this thing came with an instruction manual. Page one-You're the Good Guy! I mean, until a month ago I didn't believe any of this was real."

Matt dropped his eyes. "Sorry."

"S'okay." Bridget crammed some fries into her mouth and washed them down with a long sip of her soda. She was suddenly ravenous, like she hadn't eaten in weeks.

"So you're one of them?" Matt asked.

"One of who?"

"One of them. A demon."

Bridget winced. She was instantly nauseous at the idea that she was part supernatural anything. "Do I look like a demon?" she asked by way of an evasion.

"Yeah, like I know." Matt finally picked up his untouched food. "What are they like? The demons, I mean?"

Bridget hadn't really thought about it before. "Kind of like nasty little kids. They like to scare you, slam doors, and show up as ominous shadows. They're not really dangerous until they get their hooks into a human."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. They can make you do things, give you extra strength, make you levitate. All kinds of crazy stuff."

"Like with Milton Undermeyer?"

Bridget smiled. The boy was quick. "Yeah."

"And that can happen to just anyone?"

"I don't think so." Bridget took a contemplative bite of french fry. What had Monsignor told her? "You have to invite them in somehow. Let them into your house and then once you engage with them, it's game on."

Matt pondered Bridget's words before he launched into his next question. "So, it sounds like real cases of possession are pretty rare, huh?"

"I think so, yeah."

"Then how come you've had four of them in the last few weeks?"

It was a good point, one that had been bothering Bridget. The Vatican seemed to agree with Matt and had sent Father Santos to investigate the swell in demonic activity in the area. But Monsignor seemed more excited by it than anything, because it gave him a chance to test Bridget's abilities. Meanwhile, the more Bridget contemplated the eerie events of the last few weeks, the more she was determined to get to the bottom of things.

They fell silent as they finished lunch, but after the waitress brought the check, Matt had one last question.

"What did they tell you?"

"Who?"

"The demons inside Milton Undermeyer. You kept ordering them to tell you something."

"Oh, right." He was in it up to his neck at this point, might as well finish the job. "They said that the Emim are attempting to summon a demon, Amaymon, who's a king of Hell, and that they are using a priest to do so. I'm supposed to stop the priest."

"That narrows it down," Matt snorted.

"Yeah."

"Do you think it's Father Santos or Monsignor?"

Bridget bit her lip.

"I hope not," she said. "But the only thing I know for sure is that Milton Undermeyer did not kill my dad. Maybe if we find the real killer, it'll lead to the priest?"

"All right," Matt said, scooting out of the booth. "Let's go, then."

"Go where?"

Matt took her hand as she climbed to her feet. "Let's go find your priest."