The Cat of Bayou Rouge
The cat was half-drowned in the cypress knee swamp, its flank a mess of raw flesh that wasn't natural. Silas Duval waded in up to his knees, ignoring the sulfur stink and the mosquitoes, and pulled it onto the bank. The wound was ugly—irregular, almost surgical in its precision. Someone had done this. Or something had. He cleaned it with spirits and applied a poultice of his own mixing. The cat...
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