The Last American Vampire (Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter #2)

A man can be whip smart and witty and caught up in the gale of life, chatting up roomfuls of people and making them laugh till their teeth damn near fall out, and at the same time, he can be the world’s loneliest, most miserable creature.

But I promise you… this country will never be destroyed from the outside. Not by any ideology or foreign power… and certainly not by you.

By being human, I was actually being inhumane. My hesitation to embrace my new abilities was causing needless suffering. Once you cross that moral threshold—once you decide to kill a man who hasn’t threatened or wronged you—better to do it quickly, or whatever moral high ground you’re standing on gets washed away by their blood.

Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Sturges. Some of my closest friends are dead.

Famous murderers are only famous because they get caught. The best killers are those whose names we shall never know.

Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows not victory or defeat.” It

Halloween, the one night when we embrace the darkness from which all of America is descended. October is the gateway to the wonderful, mystical finale of the American year. A place where life ends and the celebration of life briefly begins.

Henry O. Sturges, born in England, March 2nd, 1563. Landed at Roanoke, July 27th, 1587. Friend to the American Revolution, present at the Battles of Trenton and Yorktown, staunch supporter of the North in its hour of need, adviser to presidents, a decorated soldier who distinguished himself in the trenches of the Great War, and member of the Union Brotherhood—a collective of vampires dedicated to preserving the freedom of man and his dominion over the earth.

He that falls into sin is a man; that grieves at it, is a saint; that boasteth of it, is a devil. —Thomas Fuller

He was a cowboy with the soul of a poet. To this day, he is the most American American I’ve ever met.

I’d heard it said that “when a man is tired of moving, he moves to New York, and the movement comes to him.

If you can’t have a little fun when you’re carrying out an assassination, then what’s the point?

In a way, it was the beginning of something I’d long feared: that vampires would become part of the popular culture. That people would be too busy worshiping them or imitating them or even laughing at them—and forget to fear them.

It’s no wonder we’re always getting’ mistaken for queers. Look at us—a bunch’a proper men, never growin’ old, ’angin’ about in the dark, bitin’ other men on the neck. They don’t fear us ’cause we got claws and fangs; they fear us ’cause they think we’re comin’ after their sons.

Just as the towering myth of Abraham Lincoln—honest backwoods lawyer, spinner of yarns, righter of wrongs—tells only part of the truth, so, too, is the myth of America woefully incomplete. The country that Ronald Reagan once called “a shining city upon a hill” has, in fact, been tangled up in darkness since before she was born. Millions of souls have graced the American stage over the centuries, played parts both great and small, and made their final exits. But of all the souls who witnessed America’s birth and growth, who fought in her finest hours, and who had a hand in her hidden history, only one soul remains to tell the whole truth. What follows is the story of Henry Sturges. What follows is the story of an American life.

Most men have no purpose but to exist, Abraham; to pass quietly through history as minor characters upon a stage they cannot even see. To be the playthings of tyrants.

Nothing kills a vampire as quickly as the past.

Oh, a pipe smoker,” said Henry. “Well, that narrows it down.” “Sometimes,” said Doyle, “there is nothing so significant as a trifle.

Perspective,” said Duell. “That’s your problem, ’tis. I’m a vampire. I love killin’, I love fuckin’, and I love watching the world go by. That’s what I am. Question is, what the ’ell are you?

Tell you now children—you’re all gonna die. No hand stamp reentry, no refund, no lie. —Found written on a bathroom stall in Disneyland, June 6th, 1988

That righteous anger quickly sharpens into determination. Determination, of course, being nothing more than anger with brakes and a steering wheel.

There’s something about the way blood tastes in New York City. It’s unlike any blood anywhere else in the world.

Try telling a starving vampire to control himself when there’s warm blood on his lips. You’d have as much luck telling a burning man not to scream.