The White House, Washington D.C.—a grand estate bathed in the soft glow of evening lanterns, standing as a beacon of power and politics in a nation on the precipice of war.
Inside one of its many opulent chambers, a boy sat cross-legged on a Persian rug, his fingers wrapped around a small silver dagger and a wooden soldier figurine. The youngest son of President Abraham Lincoln played quietly, unaware that the shadows in the room had begun to shift unnaturally.
Then, a whisper of motion—barely more than a ripple in the air.
The maid standing near the doorway moved with an eerie grace, her tall and gaunt frame twisting unnaturally as she stepped forward. Her face, once human in appearance, contorted into something monstrous—fangs glistening in the dim light, her lips pulling back in a silent snarl as she lunged.
The boy barely had time to cry out.
The room erupted into chaos.
The rich, embroidered carpet tore apart beneath the force of a single step as James Howlett shot forward, a blur of motion cutting across the space between them. Before the predator's fangs could sink into soft, innocent flesh, James' hand clamped around the back of her skull with inhuman strength.
A sickening crack! followed as he drove her head into the marble floor. Blood spattered across the rug, a crimson contrast against the pristine white and gold decor.
She twitched once, twice—then went still.
James turned to the child, his movements suddenly gentle. He knelt beside the trembling boy and shielded his tear-filled eyes from the horror before him.
"You're safe," James murmured, lifting him effortlessly and passing him into President Lincoln's outstretched arms.
The President, who had rushed in with guards at his heels, let out a breath of relief. But the moment was short-lived.
A guttural growl filled the air.
The supposed corpse at their feet jerked violently, an unholy screech tearing from its throat as it sprang up once more, faster than human eyes could follow.
"Behind you!" Lincoln bellowed.
James didn't flinch.
The monster's claws slashed through the space where his neck had been an instant ago, but James was no longer there. He moved with supernatural fluidity, ducking, twisting—then striking.
A sharp palm strike connected with the creature's throat, crushing bone. In the same fluid motion, he grabbed its arm, twisted, and with another brutal snap, the body crumpled to the ground.
Yet even with a broken spine and shattered neck, the creature still writhed, its fanged mouth forming curses in a tongue long forgotten by men.
James exhaled through his nose, his foot coming down sharply—pinning its skull to the floor.
Then, he looked up at Lincoln, eyes sharp with knowing.
"Mr. President," he said calmly, as if discussing a mere inconvenience, "I take it you have a few things to tell me."
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Secrets of a Nation's Shadows
Smoke curled in lazy spirals from the tips of two cigars, filling the air with a rich, earthy scent. The storage room was dimly lit, lined with crates stacked with weapons not meant for war, but for something much older.
James turned a silver dagger over in his hand, its blade engraved with markings that hummed with hidden power. Beside him, President Lincoln leaned against a wooden crate, fingers idly tracing the handle of a well-worn battle axe.
"Only silver?" James asked, inspecting the weapons. "I've heard wooden stakes work too. Sunlight, fire—any of that actually kill them?"
Lincoln exhaled a long stream of smoke before answering.
"The legends get most of it wrong," he admitted. "Wood does nothing. Sunlight weakens them, makes them sluggish—but it won't kill them outright. Fire, though? Fire works. Burns them beyond their unnatural healing."
James hummed in understanding. "And decapitation?"
Lincoln chuckled, the sound grim. "Well, that works too. Problem is, getting close enough to do it before they tear you apart." He lifted the battle axe and twirled it in his hands with practiced ease. "Which is where these come in handy."
James leaned back, his expression unreadable. "So," he mused, "the great Abraham Lincoln, vampire hunter. And the Southern slave owners… they're all connected to this?"
Lincoln's gaze darkened. "Not all," he admitted. "But enough. The South has become a breeding ground for them, hiding behind the institution of slavery to feed in plain sight. The war ahead—it's not just about politics, James. It's about purging this country of the monsters pulling the strings."
James was silent for a moment, then let out a short, dry laugh.
"You know," he said, rolling the cigar between his fingers, "history never mentioned that part."
Lincoln smiled, eyes gleaming with something knowing. "History's written by those who survive."
The two men sat in silence for a while, watching the smoke dance in the air.
Then Lincoln spoke again. "You're… older than you look, aren't you?"
James' gaze flicked up sharply.
"I beg your pardon?"
The President smirked. "You move like a man who's seen too many battles. And when you first smelled that thing in the house, you didn't react like someone unfamiliar with the scent of monsters."
James hesitated, then sighed. "Let's just say I've been around for a while."
Lincoln studied him carefully. "Two hundred years?" he guessed.
James choked on his cigar smoke.
"Not that long," he coughed, shaking his head. "But I've seen my share of things."
Lincoln nodded, taking another thoughtful drag of his cigar. "And you found your way to my doorstep, of all places."
"I go where trouble is," James admitted. "Seems like I'm in the right place."
Lincoln leaned forward, his expression grave. "Then stay."
James arched a brow.
"Stay in Washington," Lincoln continued. "Help me end this war—not just for the Union, but for the future of this country. The vampires and their allies won't go down easy. A man like you… you could tip the scales."
James was silent for a long moment, staring into the smoke-filled air.
"I'll think about it," he finally said. "For now, I have other things to take care of."
Lincoln didn't press further.
The night stretched on as the two men talked—of politics, war, and creatures lurking in the shadows. And as James left the White House in the early hours of the morning, he couldn't shake the feeling that history was shifting beneath his feet.
This world was not the one he remembered.
And if vampires were real… what else had been hidden from the pages of history?
One thing was certain.
The war ahead would be unlike anything the world had ever seen.