THE SWAMP SAINT
The water in the bayou did not reflect anything. It swallowed light, sound, and occasionally people, and then it moved on with the slow, inexorable patience of something that has all the time in the world. Cyprian Thibodeaux knew the bayou's appetite because he had fed it his entire life. He returned from the swamp at dawn, his boots heavy with mud and the weight of whatever he had done in the...
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