"Mr. Lincoln, I must say—you've grown much heavier," James Howlett teased with a playful grin as he effortlessly lifted young Willie Lincoln into his arms.
The boy giggled, wrapping his arms around James's neck. "Mr. Howlett, you're still as strong as ever! I bet you could lift my father too."
President Abraham Lincoln chuckled at his son's enthusiasm while straightening his waistcoat. "Now, now, let's not put Mr. Howlett's strength to the ultimate test. I fear the White House floors may not withstand it."
"Willie, don't pester Mr. Howlett. Come down now." Mary Todd Lincoln's voice was warm but firm as she stepped forward, taking the hand of her youngest, Thomas, who was bouncing on his heels, eager for his own turn.
James set Willie down gently, watching as the two boys scurried back to their mother's side. There was something deeply endearing about the way Mary watched them, her blue eyes filled with a quiet kind of love, the sort that gave a home warmth even in the coldest of winters.
"Quick, James—Miss O'Hara—try this dessert," President Lincoln said, rubbing his hands together as a serving tray was placed before them. "The last time you visited, well... let's just say we had other pressing matters, and you never got to enjoy the kitchen's finer work."
James smirked knowingly, recalling the peculiar circumstances of his first visit to the White House. It was a tale best left unspoken at the dinner table.
As the evening meal concluded, O'Hara and Mary were led away by the children's pleading voices, drawn into their playful antics. James and Lincoln exchanged amused glances before reaching into their respective pockets.
"Try this—Cabanas." James held out an elegant cigar.
Lincoln's eyes lit up with curiosity as he set aside his plain wooden case, taking the offering with an appreciative nod. "There aren't many of these around. Europe's royals get first pick, and our little disagreements over trade haven't exactly kept us in favor." He sniffed the cigar's tip and smiled. "I assume you acquired these through diplomatic charm?"
"The Governor-General of Canada sends me a few each year, though I find them lacking. I'm planning to establish my own plantation in Cuba—better control, better quality. Not for public sale, of course."
Lincoln raised an eyebrow as he expertly cut the tip of his cigar. "Leave it to the industrialists to corner even the luxuries of life. And here I thought the war occupied most of your time."
James grinned as he struck a match, the orange glow illuminating his face. "One must have diversions, Mr. President."
Lincoln took a slow drag, exhaling a perfect ring of smoke. "Just don't let Mary hear of it. She already scolds me about my indulgences."
"Not to worry," James chuckled. "Consider your annual supply covered—complimentary."
Lincoln laughed heartily before his expression sobered. "In about a year's time, the South will surrender. The war will be over, and this country will need to heal. Tell me, James—what do you foresee in the years to come?"
James leaned back, eyes flickering in the dim candlelight. "Rapid industrial growth. A strengthening of national power. In a few decades, the United States will be firmly among the world's foremost nations." He paused, then added, "But beyond that... challenges will arise—conflicts that transcend battlefields. The world will change, and with it, so must we."
Lincoln regarded him carefully, the weight of the words settling between them. "For a man so young, you speak with the certainty of a historian."
James exhaled slowly. "History follows patterns. Productivity advances. Societies evolve. The real question, Mr. President, is what role you intend to play in that change."
Lincoln's gaze drifted toward the crackling fireplace. "I only seek to mend this country. But even in unity, there are wounds that will not close easily."
James studied him intently. "Your vision is noble, Abraham. But you must be cautious. The forces that oppose you are not merely political. If you push too far, too fast... you will be remembered as a martyr rather than a leader."
Lincoln offered a weary smile. "History will be the judge."
James sighed. "Then let me do what I can to ensure you live to see it."
---
A Town on Edge
Far from the polished halls of Washington, the town of Jacksonville was steeped in fear. It was as though God Himself had turned away from the people, leaving them to fend for themselves against something unnatural.
The past month had seen too many disappearances—too many whispered rumors of a creature lurking at the edge of town.
Two days prior, an iron-tower of a man had arrived, his very presence striking unease in the hearts of the townsfolk. Now, the sheriff and his men stood outside what was known as the ghost house, a structure that no one dared approach.
Sergeant Red Stern wiped the sweat from his brow as he observed the battered home. The front gate had been violently torn apart. The wooden walls bore deep gashes, as though something had clawed its way out from within. The very foundation seemed to sag, as if the earth itself had tried to swallow the house whole.
And then there was the sound.
A low, rhythmic rumbling that vibrated through the ground—like the snoring of some enormous beast. The sheriff and his men had camped out for three nights, taking turns standing watch. None of them had seen the creature, but they felt its presence.
Stern, skeptical at first, now found himself wondering whether the men and bullets he'd brought would be enough.
Then, suddenly, silence.
The absence of the sound was almost as terrifying as its presence. The two nearest officers instinctively gripped their rifles, eyes darting toward the broken doorway.
And then—it emerged.
A shadow moved in the darkness, stepping into the dim moonlight.
It was a man.
Or at least, it had the shape of one.
He was impossibly tall, his head brushing the top of the doorframe. Broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, his presence alone was suffocating. Short, dark hair framed a rugged face, where a thick beard only half concealed a mouth lined with unnaturally sharp teeth.
His arms were long, his hands massive, fingers curled slightly as though bearing unseen claws.
For a moment, Stern and his men simply stared, their breath catching in their throats.
The man stepped forward.
The officers' hands trembled over their triggers, but they hesitated. He was—human, wasn't he?
Then, he grinned.
And his canine teeth gleamed in the pale light.
A deep, gut-wrenching fear settled in Stern's stomach. He suddenly understood something primal—something unspoken.
The man was hungry.
And he was looking at them.
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