I love you father.
Nicodemus Archleone squeezed his eyes shut. When he imagined her, he did not see her as he'd left her, still and pale before the Gate of Blood. He lived in a maelstrom of memory. Deidre, four years old, and struggling to don one of her mother's silken tunics and stola. Swimming in a sea of fabric, making soft sounds of distress when she could not find the hole for her head. He'd picked her up, cloth and all and parted the layers until he found her soft, round head. Her hair was soft as a bird's down when he stroked it.
"Tata!" She exclaimed, a wide smile stretching her lips, and reached her pudgy hands up to him. She stroked his cheek and the growth of beard he had kept for as long as it was fashionable. In most societies then it had been a sign of manhood and a mark of pride. Then she reached up, waved merrily to the shadow that danced on the wall. Her child's tongue could not puzzle out the precise cadence of Anduriel's name.
Too young for a coin at four. It had to be taken of one's own free will. She had instead taken it at eight. He still remembered how nervous she had been. Her body had been thin as a rapier, even then. She'd only ever seem to grow taller and more beautiful. Her mother had scented her hair with eucalyptus and scrubbed her until her cheeks were rosy. She'd been breathtaking in a blue silk dress.
Still, her hand had not shaken when she'd extended it toward him. When he withdrew the coin from the pouch at his waist she watched it with eager eyes. He'd pressed the coin of Sathariel into her hand, and closed her small fingers around it. It was the most precious gift he could give her. The only thing in this life that could protect her, and keep her from being trampled underfoot like so many other hapless mortals.
Power. The coin was power and knowledge, the angel inside a friend and confidante more loyal than any she could ever hope to meet if she lived a thousand lifetimes.
Deirdre had made the choice to stop aging when she turned twenty. At that age she still looked more physically mature than her mother, who'd frozen forever as a mere girl. He still remembered how beautiful she'd looked wearing nothing but candlelight. That first night-and every night thereafter-had been as close to any paradise as he'd come. She was still so soft, so small, even with Sathariel to protect her.
She'd looked very small in death, too. He could not carry the body away. It meant nothing without her soul to inhabit it.
He'd faced a similarly difficult decision after his flight from the Carpenter's house. Who was worthy of the coin? No, not the coin. Her coin. It had been hers for fifteen centuries. If anyone could claim ownership of it, it was his beloved Deirdre.
Anduriel knew. He always knew exactly the right course of action to take.
It had been ridiculously easy to breach the security of Saint Mark's Academy for the Gifted and Talented. A surgical strike ensured there need only be two deaths to secure the prize, and then they were away.
Nicodemus prefered the warehouse districts when he came to America. There was a special sort of irony when one kept a prisoner, right in the heart of the city. There were a million souls around, and yet no one to hear the screams.
She'd screamed quite a bit at first. And cried. Oh, how she cried. One would think she'd have more fortitude, after everything she'd been through. It didn't matter, in the long run. It could be trained out of her. He set the girl on a crate, smoothing her ruffled skirt in an almost businesslike gesture. He stroked her hair, thick dark waves that resembled her mother's. Her chin wobbled. She had her father's chin, strong and square. He tucked a lock of her hair behind one ear in the facsimile of tenderness.
She began babbling immediately when he removed the duct tape.
"Mouse!" She cried. "Where's Mouse? What did you to do him?"
"He is safe," Nicodemus lied. Dresden's mutt had been a necessary casualty as well. If he'd had the time to skin it and send the pelt back to its master, he would have. "For now. It's up to you, Maggie."
"H-how do you know my name?" The girl quailed before him, shaking like a leaf in a strong gale.
"I know all about you," he soothed, running a hand through her hair. "And I'm here to help you."
"My name is," he paused, amending his statement before he could give her his full name. No doubt Carpenter had poisoned her mind against them already. "Nick."
"Like Saint Nick?" She asked. She was calming slowly, by degrees. It was a promising start.
"Yes," he said, the ghost of a smile curling his lips. Children really were tractable. "And I have a gift for you. Why don't you hold out your hand for me, hm?"
The girl hesitated. Smarter than she first appeared, it would seem. He drew the coin slowly from his pocket, and offered it to her. "It's a friend. We want to help you, Maggie."
She cringed away from him, but didn't run as he uncurled her fingers and placed the silver Denarius on her palm.
"Your father will be here soon," Nicodemus promised, and the ghost of a smile became something closer to the real thing.
Margaret Dresden was not Deirdre, and never would be. She could only hope to be a pale imitation. But stealing her away from Dresden was cold comfort.
That would have to do for now.