Jonathan—there was Jonathan, right there on the altar, standing front and center, his wrists wrapped with cords whose ends were fastened round the necks of the two marble lambs. He looked absolutely terrible, shoeless, shirtless, his remaining clothing dirty and fouled, his skin smudged and hair wild, but it was his expression that was most unsettling. There was something of the maniac in it, something crazed.

Tomás, scanning the backs of the heads of the many people sitting sedately in the church pews, tightened his hand around his mother's forearm. What was this?

Against his better judgment, he'd spent the previous night in Baton Rouge, with Maggie St. James. He hadn't exactly meant to stay there; he'd meant to go home, hadn't wanted to leave Elena alone for too long. But after they'd spoken to Maggie's weird sister and then she'd . . . well, Maggie had kissed him, and she hadn't stopped there. She'd given him head as he sat in the passenger seat of her car, and though it'd been physically a little awkward, Tomás certainly hadn't protested. Afterward, Maggie had continued to surprise him, driving to a liquor store and buying a case of White Claw Surge. They'd parked in an empty lot and gone through the whole case, and then they'd fooled around some more in the back seat of the car before eventually passing out.

Everything had gone out of Tomás's head. Everything about his mother, his brother, getting home—all of it. And though they'd made it back late the next day, the young man had come home to find Elena in full panic mode.

She'd told him everything about the night before, that the St. James woman had drowned a man in her pool but said Eddie was alive, and though Elena had gone straight to the police, they'd insisted she return home, that they'd investigate. So she'd been frantic over both her sons all night long, not slept at all. None of her calls and messages had made it through to Tomás, whose cell only upon returning to town began receiving them.

They'd waited out the day, Tomás riddled with guilt and Elena popping pills to calm her nerves. She'd called the police station multiple times but received the same answer: stay put—we're looking into it.

Somehow the hours had passed. Tomás had given up messaging Maggie. If Elena's account was accurate, Maggie would've returned home to find her brother dead and her mother a murderer. So he couldn't blame her for not responding to him, even if he was anxious to figure out what all had happened the night before and whether it were a fluke or something she intended to continue, because in spite of his tempest of emotion, Tomás couldn't help glowing when he recalled the details of their interactions. He'd tried to tamp down his excitement, though, in light of his mother's distress and the very real possibility that Maggie might be far too upset to want anything more to do with him, at least for the time being.

In any case, the hours had passed, until miraculously, at last, nearing nine o'clock, an officer had shown up and said he had information, that they'd need to come with him.

Tomás and Elena had eagerly followed him into his car, logically assuming they'd be taken to the station, but there'd been something off about the policeman's affect. He'd not answered any of Elena's agitated questions about Eddie or the scene at the St. James house, and when they'd pulled up outside the Catholic church, warning bells went off in Tomás's head.

What was there to do but listen to the officer and go inside?

Well, they had, and now Tomás stood in bewildered, deepening dread, staring at that semi-conscious image of Eddie's father.

Elena stammered something inaudible before pulling away from Tomás and pleading with the officer who'd brought them in: "D-did Jonathan hurt my boy? Is he—is that why he's—"

The officer ignored her entirely and moved away to speak with the chief. But Tomás and Elena weren't left on their own, for behind them, a heavy, gentle voice spoke. "Ms. Flores, Tomás," the priest intoned.

The addressed turned to the man, who wore black slacks and long-sleeves, his white collar peeking out around his throat. The priest's angular clean-shaven face and thick head of gray-streaked hair, the glint in his eyes from the nearest quivering candleflames, struck both mother and son as predatory, wolfish in spite of his mild voice; they'd seen Father Hugh before yet nearly failed to recognize him, now.

He placed a hand on each of their shoulders. "We've been waiting for you."

Elena and Tomás looked at one another, then back to the priest.

Father Hugh gestured toward the altar. "Plase, take your seats; we've reserved a special place in the front pew."

Trying to swallow but finding his throat had gone dry, Tomás had no words. The apparent gravity of the situation, not just the number but also the sort of people who'd assembled—police, the priest, at least half the town including some of his teachers and classmates, coaches and even—was that the mayor? Yes, he thought it was! The man had come to speak at their school sometime in February. This had to be some sort of massive prank, something for social media, like one of those reality shows where people were put in strange or inequitable scenarios to see how they'd react . . . it had to be something like that, but the horrible feeling of not being in on the joke twisted knots in his stomach as he and his mother drew near the pews and started slowly down the center aisle. As they walked, those seated turned heads to look at them, yet no one spoke; no one smiled; no one gave any indication that any of this was a joke, and most notably, no one was filming or even looked to have a phone out.

Elena wrapped her trembling fingers through her son's. She couldn't take her eyes from Jonathan, Eddie's father—she'd loved him at one time, and she'd nearly loved him when he'd come back out of nowhere. But he'd gone, left her again . . . except, clearly, he hadn't left her. Something had happened to him! Why did he look so terrible? And why was he tied up? What—what was going on?

"What is this, Tomás?" Elena whispered as discreetly as possible in the profoundly silent space.

Her boy only shook his head. There were no words for what he felt, no way of knowing what he should feel. And he'd caught sight of Maggie, there, nearly three rows from the front, sitting next to her mother, entirely unbothered. She had to know what was happening! If only he could speak with her, after their night together . . . oh, but everything was too still and too serious. Before he could do more than meet her nonchalant eye he and his mother reached the first row. Jonathan, mere yards before them, a few steps up and on the altar, had fallen to his knees, and now that they were closer, Elena trembled when she heard a low moan escape the man's lips. She felt an urge to wipe the trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth, to run her hand along his cheek. But his own vacant expression convinced her Jonathan was in no state to speak. In fact, he appeared incognizant of his surroundings, the way he panted and rocked back and forth on his knees.

The priest was at their backs, hastening them into their pew. Elena and Tomás did as they'd been asked, settling amongst the others who'd gathered. A pageant, Elena told herself. Or something like Holy Thursday, when the priest washes others' feet. This is some sort of religious celebration. She wished she knew what it was, but perhaps she'd not kept up with her Catholicism enough to know this one.

Tomás, unable to tell himself calming lies, kept on the edge of his seat, his entire body tense, refusing to relax.

"My true congregation," Father Hugh's voice cut the thick atmosphere in two as he walked around Jonathan and stepped up into the pulpit, "I am thrilled to tell you that this will be the last of the cleansings. Should all go well tonight, your children's children will have no need to carry on this, our unholy tradition, and I will be relieved of my burden, able to find that eternal rest which we all seek."

He studied the faces of the people before him, zeroing in on those he knew well (at Glory and Maggie and Mae he almost allowed himself a knowing smile but stopped short) and those who had no knowledge of what was about to happen, Ms. Flores and her older boy. For the first time in his sixty-something-year-memory, Marion experienced a feeling close to dismay. David LeBlanc and his children, Lindell St. James and his . . . they'd been complicated in different ways. This time, though—this Flores family—they'd only just arrived, hadn't had any idea what they'd been wandering into. The mother and that young man didn't seem to deserve what was coming, and while what he was about to do would shock them, it was the aftermath that would destroy them.

"Shall we begin?"

The captive audience offered no verbal response, only nods of assent here and there. Tomás glanced at those around him, hoping for some indication of what was happening, but no one returned his attention.

"I am not Father Marion Hugh, tonight," Father Hugh began, his tone deepening, his throat expanding to allow forth something almost like a growl. "This is not your church. This night, we remember those of your founders, the Surette family, who were lost to the evils of their neighbors. Many years ago, they traveled from the north after leaving their ancestral homes across the ocean, forced to wander until they at last settled here in the swamp. Amongst their friends and families, harboring the old traditions and values in their hearts, they assumed they were at last safe, but jealousy and wickedness found willing hosts in those less revered in their humble settlement, namely the families LeBlanc and St. James. The seeds of envy, once they've taken root, produce gray and twisted fruit. In darkness yet under the guise of being Christians, true brothers and sisters in their Lord doing the work necessary to denounce pride and greed, they made a promise to bring suffering to the Surette line, and as with many such enterprises, what began as trivial molestation transformed into something much blacker, with the ultimate end being the family's extinction.

"But what they did not count on," Marion snarled, his lip curling at the left, "was me."

Suddenly, Jonathan became animated, began to jerk at the cords holding him fast between the marble lambs. He'd been so meek, so quiet, that Tomás, rapt at the priest's words, had nearly forgotten Eddie's father was among them. LeBlanc . . . Father Hugh had said Jonathan's last name, and from what Tomás could tell, he hadn't said anything nice about it.

Before the young man's fear for Jonathan renewed itself, though, the priest began to shout, his words spoken slowly yet forcibly.

"It is Surette blood that waters the earth of this town, and though your people did not themselves wield the weapons that cut down the Surette family, they stood idle and impotent as the years of violence claimed one after another!

"A heavy curse is placed on your heads, though it is not nearly so heavy as that which hunts the descendants LeBlanc and St. James. Should you wish to remain safe as the Angel of Death stalks these streets this night, you must, my friends, be washed in the blood of the lamb."

Elena reached over and gripped her son's knee. Tomás knew what she was thinking: Are you washed in the blood of the lamb? It'd been written on the side of the drain channel from which Eddie had vanished.

Tomás was sure that something should be happening around him, something to break the awful tension. He wanted people to be talking or calling out or something, but their silence terrified him more than anything the priest had said. And what had he said? Some kind of history lesson! None of it meant anything at all to him, beyond the mention of Jonathan's last name . . .

Marion had descended from the pulpit. Everything about the priest was red. His eyes gleamed with more than candlelight; his face was flushed from the energy he'd put into his words; and in his hand—yes, Tomás noticed as his gut trembled—was a knife. Small and precise, the size of a pen, but a knife, definitely.

"Let him go!" Elena gasped when she realized she'd spoken her desire aloud, and yet no one stirred. No one said or did anything at all save Tomás, who turned to her anxiety-stricken. "What is he doing?" Elena whispered, but her son had no answers.

"The sacrificial lamb," Marion continued, stepping down from the altar and standing behind Jonathan, "is despised. We reject him. We know he is a marked man, punished by the gods. For your people, long ago, went astray, and so the lamb shall be pierced for their negligence, for their despondency; he shall be slaughtered for their sins!" With his left hand, Father Hugh took hold of Jonathan's hair and yanked back his head. "His blood, poured from his wound, will seal your safety, prolong your peace. By his sacrifice, you will be healed. When you are washed in the blood of the lamb, you shall find your salvation this night and, I pray, every night henceforth."

Father Hugh raised the dagger, lifted his eyes toward the rafters and murmured something. Tomás understood at once what was about to happen but knew not what to say or do only that he should do something, but then Jonathan's mouth fell open, and from his seat in the front pew, Tomás could see quite clearly that the man's tongue had been removed, and a sense of utter surrealism overtook the boy.

"As a sheep is silent before its butcher, so shall the lamb not speak. For every evil must have its remedy!" shouted Father Hugh. "Seek, until ye shall find it."

With that, in one swift yet powerful motion, Marion swept the blade across Jonathan's naked throat, drawing a crimson line that began immediately to run rivers down his bare chest while the man choked and coughed on the blood finding its way into his torn esophagus.

Detached and bewildered, Tomás hardly realized his mother had jumped up from the pew and cried out, that then two officers took hold of Elena and dragged her over the front of the pew and toward the convulsing figure of her former lover. Father Hugh thrust Jonathan's head forward and released his hair. Then he wiped his knife with a white cloth and stepped beneath the ropes to stand before Jonathan. He rubbed his right index finger in some of the blood running down the man's chest and turned to the sobbing woman to say "I wash you in the blood of the lamb" before wiping a scarlet streak across her forehead. He did the same to the two officers gripping the hysterical woman.

Tomás surfaced from his stupor when someone prodded him from the side, and he realized the man next to him was urging him to rise and take his place in line. On the other side of the aisle, people were leaving their pews to approach the scene on the altar, where the priest was marking them in the same manner he'd marked Elena. Tomás was holding them up.

His mother! Where was his mother? Her cries were driving him mad. He rose and began to scoot out of the pew, but rather than get in line with the others, he ran to Elena, who'd been taken into a side chapel by her captors. Tomás was about to begin throwing punches if either officer refused to let go of his mother, but before he could become violent, a pale older woman approached them and wrapped her hands around Elena's face.

"Go home," Glory St. James advised, her nostrils quivering slightly as the blood from her marking ran down the bridge of her nose. "Stay inside, and your boy will come back to you tonight."