Seth Grahame-Smith - Abraham Lincoln - Vampire Hunter

Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. *

Abraham Lincoln died at 7:22 in the morning, on the Ides of April 1865.

The men at his bedside lowered their heads in prayer. When they were finished, Edwin Stanton declared, “Now he belongs to the ages.” With that, he returned to his telegrams. John Wilkes Booth was on the run, and Stanton meant to catch him.

VIII

Booth and Herold had managed to elude the Union Army for eleven days, escaping first to Maryland, then to Virginia. They’d hidden in swamps for days on end; slept on beds of cold earth. Booth had expected to be embraced as a hero, the Savior of the South. Instead, he’d been cast out into the cold. “Ya gone too far,” they’d said. “The Yanks’ll burn every farm from Baltimore to Birmingham lookin’ fer ya.”

The second of the gypsy’s predictions had come true. Booth had amassed a “thundering crowd of enemies.”

On April 26th, Booth woke to shouting, and knew at once.

Goddamned double-crossing son of a bitch …

Richard Garrett had been one of the few Virginians who hadn’t turned them away. He’d given them food to eat and a warm tobacco barn to sleep in. Judging by the Union soldiers outside, he’d sold them out for the reward money, too.

Herold was nowhere to be found. The coward gave himself up. It didn’t matter. He would be faster on his own, anyway. Night had fallen, and the night belonged to Booth’s kind. Let them wait , he thought. Let them wait and see what I am. His leg had long since healed, and even though he was weak with hunger, they would be no match for him. Not in the dark.

“Give yerself up, Booth! We ain’t gonna warn ya again!”

Booth stayed put. True to their word, the Union soldiers issued no further warnings. They simply set fire to the barn. Boards were set alight; torches thrown onto the roof. The dry old barn was engulfed in a matter of seconds. The blinding flames made the barn’s dark corners seem deeper. Booth put his dark glasses on as ancient beams began to creak overhead, and fingers of gray smoke crawled up the walls. He stood center stage and tugged on the bottom of his coat—an old actor’s habit. He wanted to look his best for this. He wanted the Yankee devils to see exactly who it was before they…

Someone is in here with me… someone who means me harm….

Booth turned in circles, ready for an attack that might come from any direction, at any moment. His fangs descended; his pupils swelled until his eyes were nothing more than black marbles. He was ready for anything….

But there was nothing. Nothing but smoke, and flame, and shadow.

What sort of trickery is this? Why could I not sense him until …

“Because you are weak…”

Booth spun in the direction of the man’s voice.

Henry Sturges stepped out of the darkest corner of the barn. “… and you think too much.”

He means to destroy me….

Somehow, Booth understood everything. Perhaps this stranger wanted him to understand—forced him to understand.

“You would destroy me over a living man?” Booth backed up as Henry advanced.

“OVER A LIVING MAN?”

Henry said nothing. There was a time and a place for words. His fangs descended; his eyes turned.

These are the last seconds of my life.

Booth couldn’t help but smile.

The old gypsy was right….

John Wilkes Booth was about to make a bad end.

FOURTEEN

Home

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.”

—Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

August 28th, 1963

I

Abraham Lincoln had a dream.

He watched his prey move among the men below; watched how confidently it circled them. Choosing. Glaring at them like a god. Mocking them; reveling in their helplessness. But you , he thought. You’re the helpless one tonight.

Just a moment now. Just another moment and it would begin. A series of rehearsed movements. A performance refined with each passing night. Perfected. Just a moment, and then the force and commotion and speed. He would stare into the blackness of its eyes and watch the life leave them forever. And then it would be over. For tonight.

He was twenty-five again, and strong. He was so strong. All of the sorrows in his life—all of the doubts and deaths and disappointments—all of them had been for this. They were the fires that burned in his chest. They were his strength. They were her . There was a prayer that came to mind in these moments. Before the screaming. Before the bargaining and the blood. He wasn’t much for prayers, but he liked this one:

If my enemies be quick, grant me speed. If they be strong, Lord, then grant me the strength to see them defeated. For mine has always been the side of righteousness. The side of justice. The side of light.

His ax blade had been sharpened and resharpened. If I swung it hard enough, I could make the air bleed. Over the years, the handle had been worn into the perfect companion for his massive hands. Each furrow a welcoming friend. It was hard to know where he ended and the ax began. Impossible to know how much…

Now.

He leapt from the barn roof and soared over his prey. The creature looked up. Its eyes went black from lid to lid. Its fangs descended, hollow and hungry. He swung the ax with all of that strength and felt the handle leave his hands, his body still high above the earth. As he fell, he caught one of their faces in the corner of his eye. The face of a helpless man, frightened and bewildered. Not yet aware that his life had just been saved. I’m not doing this for you, he thought. I’m doing it for her. He watched his old friend somersault through the air… wood metal wood metal wood metal . He knew . From the moment he let it go, he knew the blade would find its target. Knew the sound it would make when it broke through the skull of that false god, splitting its confident smile in two… tearing through its brain… denying it everlasting life. He knew because this was his purpose.

It had always been his purpose….

Abe woke in his White House office.

He dressed and sat at a small desk by one of the windows overlooking the South Lawn. It was a perfect late August morning.

It’s good to be in Washington. It feels strange to write those words, but then—I suppose I’ve been swept up in the excitement of the day. It promises to be a historic one. I only pray that it’s remembered for the right reasons, and not for the violence that some have predicted (and others hoped for). It’s not yet eight o’clock, but I can already see the crowds marching across the Ellipse toward the Monument. How many will there be? Who will speak, and how will their speeches be received? We will know in a few short hours. I only wish they had chosen a different venue. I admit that it causes me no small discomfort to be near that thing. I was surprised, however, at what little discomfort I felt sleeping in my office. It is fitting, I suppose. For it was here, in this very room, that I signed my name to the ancestor of this day. I must remember to send President Kennedy a note of thanks for having me as his guest.

II

On the morning of April 21st, 1865, Abraham Lincoln’s funeral train left Washington and began the journey home to Springfield.