She crossed herself. He almost laughed at the gesture. How many people had done that to him? How many times had every limerick, every verse, been thrown at him? In Europe they had thought of him as nothing but a pathetic wino, stalking the streets at night. He had killed many men simply because they had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Never women, though he come to hate them. Never children. Every child looked like his children, and he could not hurt them—even though he had, in those last days, when the apocalypse came with fire and snow and silence.
His eyes, one red and the other a ghostly blue-white, narrowed at the mention of his favorite child. He thought of her often. Yet the image of her came with the others; with Gabriel as he had been, furious and war-like, and Draco, Mab’s child by all rights. He breathed out into the night and found the air cold. “Did she now?” Quiet, testing. She had seen the worst of him. What had his daughter told this pretty little girl?
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