Thirty-Three.

BRIDGET DROPPED HER FLASHLIGHT. At first she thought it was a demon answering her from the darkness of the room, but then she saw the figure-the human figure-silhouetted in the doorway. It reached a chubby hand to the wall and flicked on the lights.

Father Santos's jaw dropped. "What in the name of G-God did you do to my office?"

Bridget looked sidelong at Matt. "It was like this when we got here, Father Santos. I swear."

"Are you s-sure?" Father Santos stepped into his office and closed the door behind him. He scratched his neck nervously as his eyes danced around the room.

Bridget snorted. "Pretty sure."

"Hmm." Father Santos bent down and began picking up books off the floor, examining their pages and spines, and stacking them on a nearby shelf.

Matt turned to Bridget and inclined his head toward Father Santos. "What the hell?" he mouthed.

"Um, Father Santos?" Bridget asked.

Father Santos didn't even look at her. "Yes, Bridget?"

"Any idea who would want to break into your office?"

"Besides you two?"

"Look, Matt only came because I asked him to. I don't want him to get in trouble."

"Actually, Father," Matt said. "It was my idea. Bridget was just trying to help."

"What are you doing?" Bridget whispered.

"Keeping you out of trouble," Matt said between clenched teeth.

Bridget set her jaw. "I don't need your help."

"Really? It doesn't seem that way."

"Um," Father Santos said. He was staring at them now, as if he were watching a pair of chimpanzees at the zoo. "Can you two save the b-bickering for later? We have more important matters at hand."

Bridget clammed up. She was keenly aware of how calm and patient Father Santos had been. No anger, no indignation. He wasn't calling the police or waking up the rest of the rectory. He just stood there, book in each hand, blocking the door, serenely shifting his gaze between Bridget and Matt.

They were so screwed.

"First off, I'd like you to tell me what you're doing in my office in the middle of the night."

Yeah, that would be first. Was there any plausible answer other than that they had broken in to steal something?

"Right," Father Santos said, interpreting their silence. "So you came here to find something. Do you even know what you were looking for?"

Bridget shook her head. At least that was the truth.

"And you found my office in this state, correct?"

"Yes."

"Any idea what they were looking for?"

Bridget glanced down at the volume of grimoires balanced on the side of the desk. "There's a volume missing."

"From Les Grimoires des Rois L'Enfer?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Hey," Matt said. He took a step forward so he was slightly in front of Bridget. "What are you going to do with us?"

Father Santos pulled his head back. "Do with you?"

"Yeah."

It took Father Santos a few seconds to realize what Matt was implying, then a look of utter surprise spread across his face. "You think I'm . . . I mean, that this . . ." His lips continued to form words but no sound came out. Father Santos shook his head in frustration, then stomped his foot on the floor. "Bridget," he said, his lips tight and drawn. "I think it's time you trusted me."

That's when Bridget lost it.

"Why should I trust you? I hardly know you, and since you showed up my whole life has turned inside out."

"Your life wasn't exactly p-perfect before I arrived."

Bridget scowled. "See, that doesn't help."

"Sorry. But still, you need to trust me."

"Trust you? Give me one good reason."

Father Santos sighed, long and low. "Because your father did."

Bridget's voice caught in her throat. "How did you know my dad?"

"Take one of the volumes out of that set," Father Santos said, pointing at the grimoires.

"What?"

"Please."

"Fine." Bridget pulled out the first volume. It was thin but solid, with thick, gilt-edged pages.

"Open the cover and read the inscription."

Bridget scowled but did what he asked. "'Property of Father Juan Santos, Order of Saint Michael.'"

"What does that have to do with Dr. Liu?" Matt asked.

Bridget gasped. "Oh my God. J of the OSM. Juan Santos of the Order of St. Michael. It was you!"

Father Santos inclined his head. "Yes."

"You knew my dad was a Watcher."

"Yes."

Matt grabbed her arm. "Bridget, what are you talking about?"

She turned to him and laughed, a wave of relief passing through her. "It was in my dad's notes, the ones I found in his study. He was waiting for instructions from someone-J of the OSM-when he was killed."

"The Order of St. Michael," Father Santos said.

Matt wasn't buying it yet. "Who?"

"The Order of St. Michael." Father Santos spoke quickly, with a fanatic's gleam in his eye. "An ancient order founded in the eighth century, after Michael the Archangel appeared to St. Aubert at Mont Saint-Michel. An order of warrior priests-"

"Warrior priests?" Matt said with a raised eyebrow.

Father Santos jutted out his chin. "As a matter of fact, yes."

Matt cast a glance at Father Santos's pudgy form. "Whatever you say."

"The Order of St. Michael is an order of the Vatican," Father Santos continued. He was obviously proud of his affiliation. "Entrusted with the task of protecting what is left of the Watchers."

"Including my dad."

Father Santos nodded. "Yes. Your father and a handful of other Watchers we've been able to make contact with over the centuries."

"There are more of us?"

"Oh, yes, but as I told you before, no one I've met whose abilities are as developed as yours."

"So you knew all this time what Bridget was?" Matt asked. He sounded less than impressed.

"I explained it to her."

"But left out the part about her dad."

Father Santos shrugged. "I was trying to protect her, just as you are now."

"Hey, guys, I'm in the room, remember?" Bridget was so tired of people trying to shelter her she was ready to scream. "And I don't need either of you standing over my shoulder, okay?"

Father Santos nodded. "Fair enough."

"Good. Now just tell me what's going on."

"All right." Father Santos clapped his hands together. "Let's start with the missing grimoire and work backward from there, shall we?"

With careful steps, making sure he didn't so much as nudge one of the books strewn across the floor, Father Santos made his way to the set of grimoires. He didn't touch them, merely bent at the waist and peered down.

"Bael, Paymon, Beleth, Gaap . . ." His voice trailed off, but his lips continued to articulate unspoken words as he ticked through the volumes. Then, with a start, he straightened up. "Oh my."

"What?" Bridget asked.

Father Santos paced in a tight circle. "My, my, my."

"What?" Bridget and Matt said together.

Father Santos turned to Bridget, his face draining of color. "Amaymon."

"Amaymon? That's the missing volume?"

Father Santos nodded. "The demon master from Mrs. Long's exorcism."

Matt leaned in to look at the grimoires. "Is that the demon king Undermeyer told you about?"

Father Santos's eyes practically popped out of his head. "What? What?"

"Oh, right." Bridget bit her lip. "You didn't know about that."

"You spoke with Milton Undermeyer?"

"Um, yeah. Yesterday."

"And?"

Bridget's eyes flicked toward Matt with an unspoken question: Can we trust him? Matt's brows drew together. He was clearly thrown by the odd, fumbly little figure of Father Santos. It took a moment before Matt slowly nodded.

Father Santos scratched absently at his neck. Her dad trusted this guy. Bizarre as it seemed. He was on their side. Time to take the plunge.

"Don't trust the priest. Those nonsense lines you gave me from the doll shop? It was an anagram for 'Don't trust the priest.' And Mrs. Long, she basically said it too, told me not to trust either of you."

Father Santos plopped down on the edge of the desk. "I see."

"And after what happened, I figured it meant you."

"W-what happened?"

"Yeah. You know. First you freaked out about my charm bracelet, then you didn't finish securing the door of the doll shop with salt. It seemed like you were trying to work against us."

Father Santos smiled wanly. "I was trying to protect you. I thought the doll shop might be a trap, and I was trying to leave a means of escape."

"Oh." Bridget hadn't thought of that. "And the bracelet?"