"Vade retro satana." Her voice was stronger, more powerful. The sensations in her body intensified in waves. She got to her feet; her ankle no longer throbbed with pain. The energy rose to a fever pitch. Bridget reached the tipping point. If she didn't force the feelings back, they would take over, swamp her, consume her.

Amaymon growled and lowered his head, his orange eyes filling the darkness beneath his brows.

"Bridget!" Father Santos yelled above the fury. "This is who you are. This is who you-" His voice choked off.

"Shut up, fool," Monsignor snarled. "You cannot help her now."

This is who you are. This is who I am. I'm Bridget Liu and I'm a Watcher.

"VADE RETRO SATANA!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. She spread her arms wide, closed her eyes, and let the vibrations wash over her.

She was floating on water, her body buoyed, enfolded by warm, tropical waves. She no longer felt the cold interior of the church, the lacquered wood of the pew, the harsh marble beneath her feet. The screams of the demons, the clash of Monsignor's sword, the growling form of Amaymon: None of it existed.

Every inch of her body seemed alive, crackling with energy. The pain in her ribs and ankle was gone. She ran her fingers through her hair, down the sides of her face, across her chest, down to her hips and back up again. Her fingertips lingered at her neck, caressing the soft skin, indulging in the teasing stings of electricity at each touch.

"Oh my God," Father Santos said.

Bridget opened her eyes to find the chaos of the church had ceased entirely. The stained glass angels stared at her, motionless. The shadows stood frozen on the wall. Monsignor had one arm around Father Santos's neck and the sword of St. Michael in the other.

And Sammy.

She could still see Sammy, the real Sammy, standing small and docile in his Justice League pajamas, his eyes closed as if sleepwalking. Surrounding him was a new creature, a figure defined in black smoke, its indefinite shape illuminated by silvery light that shifted and seethed. This was the entity she'd caught a fleeting glimpse of at Mrs. Long's. This was the invisible hand that choked her, the unseen force that threw pews, that attacked Matt. This was Amaymon, the real Amaymon, a demon king of Hell.

Then she realized something else. She was staring this creature-this towering shadow of evil-dead in the eye.

She looked down at her body. The silver light was coming from her. Through her. Was her. The outline of her hands and fingers was obscured by a blur of intense light. She couldn't even see her jeans and sneakers, just a pillar of light extending ten feet down to the floor.

Well, that was new.

She should have been afraid. She should have closed her eyes and wished she was safe in her bed at home, but she didn't. She should have looked to Father Santos for advice on what to do next, but she didn't need to. Somehow, she just knew.

"Amaymon, fallen from Grace." Her voice sounded huge.

Amaymon backed away from her. "This cannot be. This cannot be."

She followed him. "The Watchers were given dominion over you and your kin."

"We are strong." Amaymon sounded anything but. "We are many."

"I banish you."

Groans and howls of agony pierced her eardrums. Father Santos and Monsignor must have heard them as well; both sprawled on the floor, hands clamped to their ears. The glow of Bridget's skin intensified. The stained glass angels shielded their faces from her light, and the shadows on the wall faded into the dappled stone.

From the back of the church, Bridget heard running footsteps, followed by a door opening, then slamming shut. Had there been someone else in the church with them? She pushed the thought out of her mind. She had more pressing matters to deal with, and whatever she was doing, it was working.

Bridget held out her arm and pointed at Amaymon. It was just a shaft of light, and it penetrated the wavering smoke of his being. "I banish you, Amaymon. I banish you to Hell."

"Bridge?" It was Sammy's voice. Bridget gasped; he sounded terrified. "Bridge, you're hurting me."

"Sammy?" He was still there, beneath the wavering smoke figure of Amaymon, eyes closed, body rigid. Was it really him or just a trick? "Sammy, are you okay?"

Sammy began to cry. "Bridge, you're hurting me."

Father Santos rolled onto his knees. "Don't listen to him, Bridget."

"Stop it," Sammy wailed. "Stop it!"

"It's still Amaymon," Father Santos said.

"No!" Monsignor launched himself at Father Santos. "The Master will see you burn."

Bridget reached her arm of light toward the small, sleepwalking figure of Sammy buried deep within the shadow of Amaymon. She willed her fingers to curl around Sammy's arm.

"Let me go, Bridge!" Sammy was hysterical. "Let me go!"

"Finish the exorcism, Bridget!" Father Santos yelled. "Finish the banishment."

Bridget set her jaw. It wasn't Sammy. Sammy was only the vessel. If she didn't get Amaymon out of his body, he'd be lost forever.

Her grip on Sammy's arm tightened. No, she wasn't going to lose her brother now. He and the demon weren't inseparable. Not yet. She turned her attention to Amaymon, focusing on his being, his essence, the aura of evil in the church. Separate from Sammy. Separate from her brother.

"I banish you."

"No!" Sammy screamed. She tensed, keeping his arm in a death grip.

"I banish you from this church, from this land, from this-"

"No!" Amaymon's voice this time, booming forth from her brother's mouth.

"I banish you from this world of men."

Bridget held on to Sammy's arm with all her strength. There was a moment of strain as the demon king tried to wrest his human host away. Then Bridget felt the snap. Amaymon had given up, leaving Sammy's limp body in Bridget's arms.

"Sammy?" she said. She lowered his body to the ground. His face was tinged with gray as if the life had been drained from him.

He was dead. He was dead, and all this had been for nothing.

"Master!" Monsignor stretched his hand in supplication, and Father Santos was on him in an instant. He wrenched the silver ring from Monsignor's finger and threw it to the back of the church.

Monsignor's face blanched. "What have you done?"

"Now, Bridget!" Father Santos said. "Finish it."

Amaymon's form swelled, doubling in size. He was gathering his strength.

"Bridget!" Father Santos called again. "What are you waiting for?"

She looked down at Sammy's motionless body. They'd taken her father. They'd taken her brother. It was time to take something in return.

"By the power of the Watchers," Bridget yelled as the tears streamed down her face. "Amaymon, king of the west, I BANISH YOU!"

Amaymon whirled into a vortex of swirling blackness. The force of the tornado was so fierce it sucked the words right out of Bridget's mouth. The swirling mass lifted up off the ground, and the floor beneath the circle crumbled away. As Amaymon sank into the hole, a tendril of smoke shot toward Monsignor and wrapped around his outstretched hand.

"NO!" Monsignor screamed. He slid across the floor, pulled by the last gasp of strength from his master. He clawed at the broken ground at the mouth of the hole, trying to keep from falling in. "Help me, Bridget. Help me."

Bridget looked down at Monsignor. She should have reached out, kept him from falling, allowed him to face his fate for the murders of her father and brother. It would have been the good thing to do.

But Bridget didn't care. "Rule Number Two, Monsignor. Do not show pity."

His red-rimmed eyes grew wide. He tried to pull his way to her, his fingertips inching across the broken marble. He lost his grip, and with a terrified scream, Monsignor Renault was gone.

Thirty-Seven.

BEFORE MONSIGNOR'S CRY DIED AWAY, a blast rocked the Church of St. Michael.

The marble altar cracked right down the middle and enormous fissures formed in the floor, emanating outward from the hellhole in jagged lines. Chunks of the tile and stone nearest the hole rocked free and plummeted downward. The chasm doubled in size.

Father Santos grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the widening fissure.

"We have to get out of here," he said.

"Right." Bridget looked down at her body-five and a half feet of nonglowing, nonangelic high school sophomore. She was glad to be normal again, and yet she almost missed that electric power of her Watcherness.

Father Santos picked up Sammy, cradling him. Her brother looked unnaturally pale.

"Is he dead?"

Father Santos opened his mouth, but she never heard what he said. With an earsplitting crack, one of the huge ceiling beams in the middle of the church broke free and collapsed to the floor. Broken bits of plaster and splintered wood flew in every direction. Another beam, closer to the altar, followed suit.

Father Santos pointed to the back of the altar. "Matt."

Matt! She'd totally forgotten about him. She sidestepped a fallen candelabra and found Matt's body behind the altar. She gently rolled him onto his side and brushed his sandy blond hair from his face. There was a gash over his left eye, already crusty with dried blood, but his body was warm and he was breathing.

He was still alive.

She stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. "Matt? Matt, can you hear me?"

She felt his body shift, and his eyelids fluttered. "Bridge?" he said slowly. He squinted at her. "Bridge, are you okay?"

"Thanks to you."

He reached a hand up to her face, then winced. "What happened?"

Father Santos crouched over them. "We'll explain later. Can you stand? We need to get out of here. Now."

Matt grunted as Bridget helped him to his feet. His left arm hung limp at his side, and his knee was twisted. She draped Matt's good arm around her neck and started for the sacristy.

Another jolt rocked the church as one of the giant pillars flanking the back wall severed from its foundations and toppled forward. Bridget hauled Matt out of the way and scrambled down the altar behind Father Santos as the pillar slammed into the wall, blocking the sacristy door.

Father Santos lost no time. He heaved Sammy over his shoulder and headed right down the center aisle. Bridget and Matt limped behind as glass exploded overhead. One by one, the stained glass windows shattered into millions of colored shards that rained down on them like confetti. Broken glass crunched beneath their feet. Plaster and tiles, glass and iron, pieces of the church crashed around them as they shimmied over a fallen ceiling beam. Father Santos dripped with sweat and Bridget's heart pounded in her chest, but they were almost there, almost to the main entrance.

As a sickening roar erupted from behind them, Bridget craned her neck and saw that the hellhole had enveloped the entire front of the church. The altar and sacristy were already gone. The back wall collapsed, and the ceiling began to crumble.

They weren't going to make it.

"Keep moving," Father Santos puffed. "Don't look back."

Ten more steps, and they made it to the door. Father Santos threw it open, and Bridget and Matt came barreling through behind him. The earth shook again as they careened down the steps and collapsed on the front lawn of St. Michael's.

Bridget looked up in time to see the entrance of the church crumble in on itself. The last of the roof disintegrated. The walls tumbled inward. In the building's final death throes, an enormous mushroom cloud billowed up from the ruins. It surged into the sky, making one last affront to Heaven. Then the entire cloud was sucked down into the sinkhole.

Bridget blinked as she watched wisps of smoke and dust filter up. They'd done it. Somehow she and Father Santos had defeated a demon king, defeated Monsignor Renault, defeated the evil that slept within the church itself. And saved Sammy.

"One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-"

Bridget spun around. Father Santos hunched over Sammy's body, his arms locked straight, his hands compressing against her brother's chest as he counted out loud.

"What's wrong?"

"-nine-ten-eleven-twelve-thirteen-fourteen-

fifteen." Father Santos bent down, grasped Sammy's chin and pinched his nose closed, then breathed heavily into his mouth.

Bridget scampered across the grass to her brother's side. "What's wrong?"

"Not breathing," Father Santos panted between chest compressions.

Matt grunted as he pulled himself up behind her. "Bridget, maybe you shouldn't-"

"He's my brother," she said, whirling on him. "And this is my fault."

"It's not."