"Of a dance? You're kidding, right?"

Matt looked right at her. There was a hint of a smile he couldn't suppress. "Then prove me wrong."

Bridget wasn't a complete moron. She knew when she was being played. Matt had found her sore spot: her inability to refuse a challenge.

"Fine," she said, meeting his steady gaze. "Hope you don't mind a date in combat boots."

Matt smiled, flashing that lethal combination of perfect teeth and hazel eyes. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Eight.

BRIDGET DRAGGED HER BACKPACK THROUGH the front door and dropped it on the spiral carpet, then sank to the floor herself and leaned back, clicking the door into place. She reached up and bolted it. The way her day was going, it was only a matter of time before someone else showed up at the house: Monsignor, Father Santos, Matt Quinn. Nope, she was locking them all out.

Bridget closed her eyes and sucked in slow, deep breaths. The house was so quiet. A-freaking-men.

Maybe being grounded wouldn't be so bad. It gave her an excuse to spend her time at home doing whatever she wanted. Yeah, this could be awesome. Like a break from everything. No chiding about Matt Quinn, no training with Monsignor, no voices in the walls . . .

The silence was broken by the patter of feet-paws, to be exact-trotting across the hardwood floor in the dining room.

Bridget's eyes flew open and swept the room. She thought for sure she'd see an animal of some sort disappearing down the hall. But there was nothing. Just a gentle swoosh swoosh from the swinging door that led into the kitchen, as if something small had just pushed its way through.

Bridget scrambled to her feet and crept to the kitchen door. Had the neighbor's cat gotten in somehow? Bridget cringed. She hated Mr. Moppet, the Shaughnessys' longhaired Burmese. Or maybe it was a rat? Bridget wasn't sure which was worse. She slowly pushed the door open and heard the sound of scurrying feet again, this time more of a clacking sound as the animal padded across the cushiony linoleum flooring. It had to be Mr. Moppet, who was always wandering into open garage doors in the neighborhood. But how had he gotten inside the house? And more importantly, how was Bridget going to get him out?

Bridget peeked around the door, hoping not to scare the stupid cat, but there was nothing there. No cat, no rat. Nothing.

What the hell?

She tiptoed into the kitchen. "Mr. Moppet," she said, trying to sound nonthreatening. "Here, kitty, kitty. Here, stupid kitty who hates my freaking guts."

Silence. She checked the pantry, but the door was firmly latched. She checked under the table, behind the recycling bins, even under the sink. No Mr. Moppet. No nothing.

Had she imagined the footsteps? Possible, but then why had the door been swinging back and forth like something had gone through?

A sickening thought hit her. She'd heard animal noises in the walls at Mrs. Long's house, grunting pigs and stomping hooves. Could this be the same thing?

See? She was right. Demonic activity was following her around.

Okay. She could handle this. She was a trained exorcist, after all. Bridget stilled herself and took a deep breath, trying to sense the room, just as Monsignor had taught her. Twice before in the presence of a demon, she'd been able to feel it in the air-the heaviness, the oppression, and that strange dizzy sensation of the walls stretching and skewing. Not this time. Her kitchen felt exactly like her kitchen.

There was one other test, one other way to know if there was an entity in her house. She reached a tentative hand toward the wall. If there was something there, she'd definitely hear it.

BRRRRRRRRING!.

Bridget let out a muffled yelp as the telephone broke the silence. Out of breath, her heart racing, she picked up the receiver.

"Hello?" she panted.

"Bridget?" her mom asked.

"Yeah."

"Are you okay? You sound like you just ran home from school."

"I'm fine," she lied. "I was in the bathroom."

"Oh." Her mom sounded less than convinced. "Well, I left you a note on the refrigerator. Do you see it?"

Bridget scanned the fridge door and saw a list in her mom's neat, schoolteacher print, held up by a San Francisco Giants magnet. "Yeah."

"It's your list of chores for today. You're grounded, not on vacation."

Perfect.

"And the last one is most important. Put the roast in at four forty exactly. I'm taking Sammy to math club, so we'll be home after six and I want dinner ready to go, okay?"

Pat pat pat pat pat. Bridget spun around, searching for the source of the footsteps. Still nothing. Was she losing her mind?

"Bridget, did you hear me?"

"Roast. Oven. Got it."

"Okay. See you soon."

Bridget held the receiver to her ear even as the dial tone buzzed. Her eyes were frozen on the kitchen door, swinging madly back and forth. From beneath the sleeve of her sweater, Bridget felt the charm on her bracelet give one violent lurch.

Bridget stumbled backward, holding her arm as far away from her as she could. Animal footsteps, maybe, but she sure as hell didn't imagine that.

Bridget dialed the number for the St. Michael's rectory from memory.

"St. Michael's," the little old church lady who volunteered in the kitchen croaked forth. "How can I-"

"Monsignor Renault, please," Bridget blurted out.

"I'm sorry," she drawled. Was she talking this slowly specifically to piss Bridget off? "Monsignor is not to be disturbed this afternoon."

She always said that. And he always took her call. "It's Bridget Liu."

As expected, the church lady grumbled something incoherent and put Bridget's call on hold. A peppy rendition of "City of God" blared as hold music just long enough for Bridget to start to sing along with the chorus. Catholic brainwashing at its best.

"Bridget?" Monsignor said. "Is everything okay?"

"Um . . ." How exactly did she bring this up? There's a ghost in my house? My jewelry's moving by itself? She was going to sound like a lunatic.

"Is something wrong?"

"Kind of." Monsignor was silent, waiting for her to explain. "I think there's something in the house."

"What kind of something?"

"I don't know. It sounds like a cat, but I can't see anything. Just footsteps and doors swinging like something went through them."

"Did you calm yourself? Take a breath and try to sense the room?"

Bridget smiled. "Yeah, just like you taught me."

"And the house feels normal?"

"Totally."

"Interesting." Monsignor paused. She could almost see him twirling that massive silver ring around his finger as he drifted into thought. "You don't hear anything? No voices?"

"Nothing."

"Very interesting."

For him, maybe. Bridget was freaking the hell out.

"I suggest," Monsignor said after a pause, "that you try to ignore it. If it is an entity, giving it attention will only serve to strengthen it. Try and go about your afternoon as normally as possible."

Normal for a girl who can banish demons. Awesome. "That's it?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Oh."

"But call me if anything changes or the contact escalates, okay?"

Bridget's eyes crept toward the kitchen door that still hadn't stopped swinging back and forth. "Okay."

"Excellent. Good luck."

Bridget's mom hunched over her plate, trying to get some leverage as she cut a piece of pot roast with a flimsy table knife. Eventually she was able to tear a chunk of the overcooked meat free and get it into her mouth. Bridget couldn't help but smile as she furtively watched her mom chew the meat for a full minute before she could swallow.

"Excellent job with the pot roast, Bridget," Mrs. Liu said with a big, kind grin. "Really, really great."

Her mom was a horrible liar. "Thanks."

"Isn't it great, Sammy?"

Sammy stuck out his tongue and made a slobbery motorboat sound.

"Sammy!" her mom snapped.

Bridget touched her tongue to the tip of her nose-one of Sammy's favorite tricks-and sent him into a paroxysm of laughter, spouting bits of overcooked pot roast all over the table.

"Samuel Michael," her mom said, wiping up bits of food with a napkin. "That is not something we do at the dinner table. How old are you?"

"Square root of sixty-four," Sammy said, pushing the meat, potatoes, and carrots around on his plate in concentric circles.

"Yes, Sammy." Her mom sighed. "Now finish your pot roast."

"Gross," he said.

Bridget couldn't help but agree. She'd meant to take the roast out after exactly an hour and twenty minutes, just like the note said, but she'd gotten distracted. She had been at the piano, working her way through a Chopin prelude and trying to ignore whatever it was haunting her house, just like Monsignor said to do, when she heard the same scampering paws across the dining-room floor. She continued to ignore it, but every few minutes she'd hear that damn cat again, each time with the same quick trot, scooting down the hall toward her room.

The fifth time, she got up and closed every single door in the house: her mom's room, her room, Sammy's room, the bathroom, and the door that led downstairs to the garage. Closed tight, locking the cat in one of them. It wasn't supernatural; it was just some poor, dumb animal trapped in the house. Mr. Moppet could just stay put until her mom came home.

As soon as she sat down at the piano, she heard the footsteps again, pattering down the hall toward her room.

She bolted from her chair and ran down the hall only to freeze in her tracks halfway. The door to her room was wide open, and from inside she heard a muffled sound.

MEEEEEEOW.

That's when the panic set in. All her training, all Monsignor's words, went right out the window. Bridget attacked her room, desperate to find the source of the noise. She pulled her bed apart, threw her closet open and dug through piles of shoes and old school uniforms. She hauled her desk away from the wall and even yanked the grate off the heating duct, just in case the cat had gotten inside.

Still no Mr. Moppet, and the only result of her mad search had been a disgustingly overdone pot roast.

"I think Mr. Moppet got in the house again," Bridget said. That cat loved her mom and Sammy, so maybe they'd have an easier time finding the thing.

Her mom glared. "That's not funny, Bridget. You're going to upset Sammy."

Had everyone gone insane? "Why would Mr. Moppet in the house upset Sammy? He loves that stupid cat."

"He's not stupid!" Sammy screamed. He shot up from the table, face red as a well-done lobster, and launched his fork right at Bridget's head. She ducked just in time; the fork barely missed.

"Sammy?" she said. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

"He's not!" Sammy continued. "He's not! He's not!"

Without another word, Sammy dashed from the kitchen. Bridget could hear his sobs as he ran down the hall to his room. Dammit.

"Mom, what's going on?"

Her mom sighed. "I forgot. You weren't here yesterday when Mrs. Shaughnessy stopped by."

A lump rose in Bridget's throat as she realized what her mom was getting at. Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please don't say the stupid cat is dead.

"They had to put Mr. Moppet down."

Shit.