The Vampyre Booth: An American Confession
Every fact in the history books is true. John Wilkes Booth has come back to supply the one thing they left out: the reason.
He did not die at the Garrett farm. He is a vampyre - with the dignified y - and the burning barn was the best exit he could improvise on short notice. A film has finally told the buried truth: that Abraham Lincoln hunted the undead, and was very good at it. It still cannot imagine that the man who shot him was one of the hunted. Billed as Assassin. No name. His coat on a stuntman.
What offends him is not being remembered as a villain. It is being remembered as a footnote. So he has written the rest himself: the touring company that turned out to be monsters, the brother the world found easier to love, the council that convened over him and merely took minutes, and the one mortal heart his gifts could not bend - and therefore the only warmth he ever believed. Every recorded fact stands exactly where the historians left it. Nothing is changed, and everything is different.
He is not sorry. He'll mention that.
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