Bridget stared at the ceiling in the darkness of her bedroom. Mr. Moppet was dead. Could she have imagined it all? She wasn't insane; she'd heard an animal. She'd seen the door moving. And she was pretty sure there was no demonic presence in the house. Yet a phantom cat and her self-

propelled bracelet charm hinted otherwise. Was there another explanation?

A light tapping at her door made her jump.

"Bridge?" Sammy poked his head into her room. She could see his mess of dark hair in the soft glow of moonlight. "Are you asleep?"

"Nope," she said.

"Good." She heard his bare feet pad across the floor, and with a sigh, she scooted over and held up the comforter for her little brother.

"What's wrong?" she asked to the back of Sammy's head.

"Nightmare."

"Elephants again?" Sammy had been terrified of elephants ever since he'd seen the psychedelic dream sequence in Dumbo.

"No."

Phew. Getting him back to sleep after one of his elephant nightmares was almost impossible. "Was it about school?"

She felt Sammy shake his head back and forth, then he pulled the comforter up to his ears and his body shuddered with a sob.

"Sammy?" He rarely cried, or showed much emotion at all. What was wrong with him tonight?

"Mr. . . . ," he began, then his voice choked off.

Ugh. The damn cat. "Mr. Moppet? You had a nightmare about Mr. Moppet?"

"Mmhmm." Sammy scootched toward her until his frigid feet just touched her knees. Bridget froze. Sammy hated being touched.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," she said. She laid a hand on his back, but he flinched away. "I didn't know. I wouldn't have said anything if I'd known he was . . ." Dead? Stone-cold dead and haunting our freaking house?

"Had a dream," Sammy said. His voice cracked. "Had a dream about Mr. Moppet."

Bridget stiffened. "A dream? Was he . . ." Flail, how did she bring it up? "Was he in the house?"

"In the house," Sammy repeated. "Running in the house."

Yeah, not a dream, kiddo.

"Running up and down the hall," Sammy continued. "I could hear him."

Bridget wasn't sure if she was happy someone else could hear the phantom cat or sad that Sammy was plagued with this nightmare. "It was just a dream." Bridget hoped her voice sounded convincing. "Mr. Moppet was sick, and now he's . . . he's in Heaven. He's happy there."

Sammy glanced back at her. "Cats don't go to Heaven," he said. "Sister Monica said so."

Stupid freaking nuns. "Well, he's in a better place, okay?"

"Promise?"

"I promise. Now try and get some sleep, Sammy."

He snuggled down into the pillow next to her. "Okay."

So Sammy could hear the footsteps too. Ugh.

Good news, Bridget wasn't crazy, although having Sammy as her sanity touchstone wasn't exactly the most comforting thing in the world. Bad news, she couldn't pretend the footsteps weren't really there. Something was in the house. Something she couldn't see.

She rolled over and stared at her alarm clock, the deep red glow of numbers telling her that she'd be lucky to get five hours of sleep before she had to get up for her meeting with Father Santos.

Blech. She was looking forward to that meeting about as much as a trip to the dentist. There was something weird about Father Santos. He wasn't like Monsignor Renault, whose very presence demanded respect. Father Santos was more like a doddering professor than an apprentice exorcist, and she hated the idea that he was watching her all the time, writing down every detail of her existence.

Sammy's breathing slowed, the deep rhythm indicating that he'd fallen asleep. That made one of them. Bridget yawned, and her eyes flitted closed. She'd worry about it all tomorrow: the mystery cat, Father Santos, the Winter Formal. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

She was just drifting off when her breath caught in her throat. The charm on her bracelet tugged at her wrist, standing up of its own accord and pointing toward her closet door. Before she could even turn to look at it, she heard a noise. From inside her closet came a distinct scratching.

Claws against wood.

Nine.

FATHER SANTOS WAS WRITING IN his little spiral notebook when Bridget arrived at his office. Classic.

She had knocked-twice-and hadn't gotten an answer, so she decided to peek inside and see if the new History teacher had ditched her. No such luck.

Bridget didn't see the priest at first. Even though the office was small and narrow, like a long broom closet, Father Santos had lined the room, ceiling to floor, with heavy wooden bookcases.

Empty bookcases. The intended occupants were half unpacked from an endless number of uniform cardboard boxes plastered with preprinted white and black labels that read proprieta della biblioteca apostolica vaticana, followed by a number written with a fat-tipped Sharpie marker in a smooth, unhurried hand. The boxes were everywhere. Some had been ripped open, their contents searched through and stacked on the floor. Most hadn't been touched.

The desk was pressed into a corner, jutting out at a diagonal like an afterthought. The only other furnishings were two chairs: the one at which the priest sat and another in front of the nearest bookcase.

And Father Santos.

He sat forward in his chair so the tips of his toes just reached the ground. His writing pace was frantic, as if he was afraid his thoughts would disappear if he didn't get them on the page fast enough. She wondered if he was writing about her, about what had happened with Mrs. Long. She wondered if his account of what she and Monsignor had been doing would end up on some cardinal's desk back in the Vatican, or worse, the pope's. Could she get excommunicated for practicing unlicensed exorcisms? Her mom would kill her.

Father Santos paused, scratched his upper lip with the cap of the pen, and scrunched his eyes, trying to capture some fleeting detail before it escaped. She thought maybe he'd notice her then, but with a quick intake of breath, he dove back into his writing. He reminded her of Sammy when he was fixated on a problem, his little genius mind utterly incapable of multitasking.

Bridget cleared her throat. "Father Santos?"

She might as well have shot a gun off in the office. Father Santos let out a shriek like a twelve-year-old girl at a Jonas Brothers concert and knocked a large pile of books off the corner of his desk.

"Bridget!"

Why was he surprised to see her? "Yeah."

"What time is it?"

Bridget glanced around the office, quickly registering the lack of clock or window. "Seven thirty. Like you said."

"Really?" He pushed back his chair and fumbled around with the pile of books on the floor. "Already?"

Sheesh, how long had he been there? "Yeah."

"Come in, come in," he said, wiping his brow with a dirty handkerchief. "Sorry about the mess."

With a heavy sigh, she closed the door behind her, edged her way past piles of ancient tomes, and dragged the empty chair to the desk. Bridget clutched her backpack to her chest and stared at a spot on the wall.

Father Santos cleared his throat several times while he shoved his notebook into a drawer. "So," he said at last. "I suppose you know why I asked you here?"

What did that mean? "I take it you don't want to talk to me about my history grade."

A wry half smile sprung from the side of his mouth. "That was a joke, right?"

"Yeah." Was he for real?

"I thought so," he said with a wink.

Lame.

Father Santos took a breath, then exhaled on a whoosh and blurted, "I, uh, want to discuss what happened with Mrs. Long."

Bridget had to fight to keep from rolling her eyes. Yeah, like it took a brain surgeon to figure that one out. Was he going to give her an official scolding from the Vatican? Or accuse her of being a witch? Did they still do that? She said a silent prayer that she was in no danger of getting burned at the stake in twenty-first-century California.

She stared at him blankly.

"What you did," he continued quickly. "W-with Mrs. Long and the, uh, the entities. That was highly unusual."

This time Bridget couldn't suppress a laugh. Father Santos raised an eyebrow. He clearly didn't see the humor.

"Sorry," she said, drawing her backpack closer to her chest.

"Like I said, it was highly unusual. I've been scouring the histories for two days trying to find a similar case of divine grace, and I must say that I've-"

"Of what?"

Father Santos did a double take. "Divine grace. A touch from the hand of God, usually bestowed on those of exceptionally pure and vigorous faith. But I've been unable to find any cases involving someone so . . ." He paused, grasping for the correct adjective. "So young."

"Oh." Bridget doubted very much that was what he was thinking. "Is that what I have?"

Father Santos dropped his eyes. "Perhaps."

Huh? "Perhaps?"

"I . . . I, uh, I thought Monsignor would have discussed this with you."

Bridget shook her head.

Father Santos pushed his chair back from his desk and laced his fingers together around his belly. "Hmm. So he didn't give you any explanation for your unique abilities?"

Bridget shrugged. "He just said I had a gift and that I had to be responsible and use it to help people."

"Very good."

"And then he started teaching me the Rules."

"His rules of engagement during an exorcism?"

Bridget cringed. She didn't like the E word. "He calls it a banishment."

"Yes. Yes, of course. But he didn't . . . he didn't mention anything about the Watchers?"

Watchers? "I don't think so."

"Interesting."

"Really?"

Instead of answering, Father Santos pulled his notebook out of his desk drawer and grabbed a pen from the caddy. He flipped to an empty page and looked at her expectantly. "Why don't we start at the beginning? Tell me exactly what happened at the Fergusons'."

That came out of the blue. "The Fergusons'?"

"Your first exor- Er." Father Santos scratched his chin. "Your first banishment, wasn't it?"

"Um, I guess."

"Then let's start there." Father Santos poised his pen over his notebook and looked at her expectantly. "You were babysitting, right?"

Bridget nodded.

"For the Ferguson twins?"

Bridget nodded again.