Blood Beneath the Cypress Knees

“You’re not supposed to be alive.”

The voice wasn’t near him. It wasn’t even behind him.It was inside his head—low, cold, dripping into his mind like oil through cracks.

The first thing Rio tasted was blood.

Not a trace—a mouthful. Warm, metallic, thick. It clung to the back of his throat like syrup made from rust. He gagged and spat into the muck, but the taste didn’t leave. His teeth felt slick with it—like it was his own.

He coughed, the sound cracking through the cypress trees. The air pressed heavy on his lungs, thick with mildew and the sweetness of decay.

When he opened his eyes, the sky was a bruised gray, just shy of dawn. Light seeped through twisted branches above in fractured beams, stabbing down through the mist like cold knives.

He lay half-submerged in swamp water—clothes soaked, skin caked in mud. Blood mingled with the stink of stagnant water and rotting leaves. His jeans were wet to the thigh. His shirt—torn and stiff—clung to him like a second skin, dried with something tacky.

Blood.

He sat up too fast, instantly regretting it. The swamp spun. Pain bloomed behind his eyes like broken glass grinding into bone.

No boots. No wallet. No memory.

Just that metallic taste…and the smell of something dead close by.

His fingernails were black at the tips, dirt wedged deep into the skin. Blood streaked his arms—both fresh and crusted. 

But there were no wounds. His skin looked…new. Smooth. Healed.

The last thing he remembered was The Rusty Anchor—crowded, sweaty, music pounding. Too many drinks. A woman smelling of bourbon and sin, whispering something in his ear—Then nothing.

Now he was here—half-naked in a swamp, baptized in blood and mud, his heart hammering like it was trying to escape his chest.

A single ray of sunlight broke through the trees and touched his bare arm.

He screamed.

The pain was instant—searing, unnatural. Flesh sizzled like meat on a skillet. Skin bubbled and blackened before his eyes. He fell to his knees, clutching the arm, scrambling backward into shadow.

Then—just as quickly—it healed. Blisters faded. Flesh smoothed. Perfect.

No scars. No burns.

Like nothing happened.

His breath quickened. His gums throbbed. He ran his tongue along his teeth and froze.

His canines were longer now. Sharper.

Predator teeth.

A rustle nearby.

Through the mist, a young deer stepped into view. Ears flicked. Nostrils flared.

He could hear its heartbeat—fast, skittish. He could smell the warmth of its blood, sweet and rich.

He didn’t choose to lunge.

His body did. When he came back to himself, the deer’s neck was torn wide. Blood steamed in the cold air. His shirt, his hands, even his jaw dripped red.

He stumbled back, bile rising—But he didn’t vomit.

The hunger was gone. He felt…satisfied.

Something deep inside him purred. He hid in an abandoned bait shack at the edge of the bayou—boarded windows, mold-streaked walls, the air thick with dead fish. He wrapped himself in a plastic tarp and slept.

He woke starving.

No food, No water. His body rejected it all.

By the third night, he stopped trying.

On the fourth day, he found a shard of glass.

The face staring back wasn’t human. Bone-white skin. Cheekbones sharp. Eyes glowing gold—feral, like embers. Teeth that looked older than bone.

He smashed the glass. Hunger drove him back into the swamp.

The moon was high when he heard it—a faint scuffle, the rush of tiny feet in dry leaves.

He moved toward the sound, silent as fog. In a patch of moonlight, a wild boar rooted in the mud, thick-necked and bristled. Its muscles bunched beneath the hide, powerful, dangerous.

He could smell it—earth and musk, and underneath, the hot pulse of its life.

The boar froze, head lifting, sensing him.

It charged.

He met it head-on. His body moved faster than thought, sidestepping, grabbing the coarse hide, twisting with unnatural strength. His teeth sank into the thick muscle at its throat.

Hot blood rushed over his tongue, flooding every nerve with warmth and power. The animal’s squeals died quickly, its body going limp in his arms.

When it was over, the boar lay still, and the swamp was quiet again.

He stood over it, chest rising and falling, that strange satisfaction curling through him like smoke.

And it terrified him.

Dusk again.

He drifted through town with his hood pulled low. Bars spilled light and music. Laughter rose over clinking glasses.

No one noticed the golden-eyed man in the shadows.

Until he saw them.

Three figures stepped from an alley off Bourbon Street. They didn’t move like people—they glided. Their skin too pale. Clothes too perfect, untouched by sweat or grime.

They weren’t human.

They were like him.

He followed them into the swamp roads, fog curling low over the water. They vanished into a shack at the edge, a crooked neon sign buzzing above the door:

LE SANG VERT

The Green Blood.

He stood in the shadows, fists clenched. His heart didn’t race—but each beat was heavy. Hungry.

The wind shifted. Cypress branches swayed.

And the voice slid through his mind again, dark and certain…

“You’re not even close to understanding what you are.”