Wraith took a swing at Skuld, dirk in hand. She managed to just touch the leather armor that doubled as padding. She twisted her wrist and tried to stab her backhanded. Skuld rolled out of the way. Skuld tried to get in Wraith’s guard with her own dirk, but Wraith used her shield to bat the offending arm away. The shield clanged on Skuld’s leather-and-metal greaves. They continued, bucking and twisting, rolling in the desert dust.

Finally, Sigrun roared, “Hold!” in ancient Norse. The crowd voted on the winner, and to her shock, Wraith won. Skuld bowed and handed over her favorite dirk and its sheath. Wraith held it overhead and roared. The crowd roared back.

They held each other’s necks, and then they touched foreheads. They drank water from their waterskins and took the time to watch Saber use the weapon he was named for. He used it against Bear, a huge and hirsute member of the Society for Creative Anachronism. A sword versus a saber was not an even fight, and both men knew it. The sword was longer, but the ancient curved blade called the krabi was wickedly long, strong, and sharp. The blades were wrapped in clear padding to prevent damaging either weapon or each other, as each man tended to forget that this was play fighting and would show an impressive set of bruises afterward.

Saber threw sand at Bear, and slid to his knees, right between Bear’s legs. “Hold!” shouted Sigrun, afraid that Bear was about to lose his… parts. Saber clasped Bear’s huge forearm and stood, and Saber roared his win. Then, with his saber held high, he took it into some loops to show off. The audience roared back.

Skuld fought Rota, in a circling dance that had both women sweating and covered with dust by the time they were done. Skuld won that one, and both women drank from their waterskins again. They all went to the fighters box to watch the Romans, actually members of the Society for Creative Anachronism, who went at it with swords.

They went for the food, giant turkey legs, Chinese stir-fry, meat pies, fruit pies, fried dough. They had very anachronistic sodas that they drank from their pewter cups. They watched the belly dancers, and Skuld and Rota washed their dusty selves off enough to join them in the sword-on-head dance. Sigrun grabbed a meat pie, fresh from judging, and Saber, Sigrun, and Wraith watched the dancers, while Sigrun and Wraith gave ululating cries that made the hair on Saber’s sweaty, dusty arms stand up.

They went and worked with Bonnie at the Metalsmith’s Shoppe. They watched her work the metal with tongs, dressed in black leather pants and a black sleeveless leather halter top, and adorning a black, metalsmith’s, wide apron. Bonnie pounded out halter bits, a horseshoe, and a few nails. The audience was in awe, watching the muscles she had built by working on Harleys, bulge out. Tori was on the bellows, dressed in an identical outfit, except for her bladed legs.

They went to see Robert and Triesta in native garb, their long black hair down their backs, leather pants and sleeveless beaded tops, making silver jewelry. David was in the booth next door with his beadwork, talking to a client, wearing a breastplate of his work with his leather pants, bracelets on his wrist. They all tried not to do a double-take of Henry in the same garb. They were used to him in jeans. Both booths did a brisk trade. A calligraphic sign said the proceeds went to old people and teens.

“True,” said Skuld, looking at the sign.

“I have anklets and armlets,” said David. “So does Triesta. Hers are metal, and mine beaded. Blue, to go with your eyes,” he said to Herja. She laughed and bought an anklet from David, and both an armlet and a circlet for her brow.

The other Valkyries did the same, all in varied colors —blue, red, or white beads, and silver or bronze for the metalwork. Skuld bought Rota a lovely onyx-and-silver intricately beaded choker, then bought a blue-and-white one for herself. Sigrun and Wraith did the same, Sigrun never having met silver she didn’t like. They soon sported chokers, anklets, armlets, and a circlet for Sigrun. Wraith also got a “crown” of silver entwined with purple beaded roses.

They went to see the Wolfpack, in breechclouts and, in the case of the women, sleeveless leather tops, sling themselves on and off horses. Inola had feathers in her hair and was enjoying every minute. Damia was there, and rode her ponies around, grinning. Happy, even though she was surrounded by the shouting, massive crowd. The dogs were next, a shepherd whistling to them to herd the sheep in and out of a small paddock and around the ring.

The ninjas were fighting in a smaller ring. They enjoyed the fighting, and then the Society for Creative Anachronism and the Valkyries had little contests that turned into bruising brawls. There were two, back-to-back against three, then four against three feinting, ducking, and dodging each other. They used swords, knives, and dirks. The Valkyries fought against much bigger opponents, but they won with sneak-in-and-poke tactics.

Then, they all watched more jousting. The armor was real, one hundred pounds per fifty kilos of metal, with real pages cleaning and polishing the metal, then working to pop out dents. They all helped them get out of the armor after the last joust, and then watched the arrows shot first by knights atop horses, then by the First Nation people on painted ponies.

The Wolfpack did much better, and they won the tourney, to the delight of many. They collected their arrows, and rode off to stable the horses, being careful not to step on the fairies, children with butterfly wings, crowns of ribbons and flowers, painted faces, and pointed ears that carried little wooden daggers. The Frost People were in black and white, painted all over their skin, and moved in and out of the crowd with ease. More than once, they saved the fairies from being trampled by horses or people, or from being herded off with the sheep and goats.

Sigrun, Saber, Wraith, Rota, and Herja washed off with a bucket of ice-cold water after the sweaty, dusty grappling, and knife-and sword-fights. They got food and drink, and they rode the camels an enterprising man had brought. They spent an inordinate amount of time in the leather shop, buying belts, gloves, waterskins, leather breastplates, and belt purses, often getting into bidding wars with the Society people over the best leatherwork. They then went to load themselves down with very light (but durable) chain mail, and swords, dirks, and belt knives with sheaths. They also got into bidding wars with knights, delighting the shopkeepers. The Society people bought lots of pewter drinking flagons, along with belt-knives and sheaths, as well as huge broadswords and smaller dirks.

Sigrun and Wraith practiced with throwing knives, and they bought a few. Sigrun found a lovely sword with a wrapped hilt in the most gorgeous steel that she bought with a back sheath. She then practiced leaning, sliding it out, and sliding it back in and off to the side where the fairies wouldn’t get trampled. The ninjas bought throwing stars and knives, and never unmasked themselves. They threw down smoke bombs and disappeared when they were finished with their purchases.

They went to see a play, a comedy of errors that had everyone gasping with laughter. Then, they went to see more jousting, and participated in the betting on the winners. They had many compliments on their metal-and-beadwork, and they sent people to their friends’ booths. They made sure their Native American friends were fed and had enough water. They went for more food, chicken pastries, and more inauthentic sodas. They went to see the storyteller, telling a tale of a magic horse and a wild ride through a haunted forest, and a princess saving the prince. The fairies and Frost People were mesmerized.

Then, they went for the dancing. The piper was piping, the fiddler fiddling, the drummers pounding away, and the day was made for dancing. They locked up the swords in their Society for Creative Anachronism’s lockbox, and danced with the jousters and fighters, blacksmiths and silversmiths, and everyone else who liked a good time at a Renaissance Faire. They got into many rounds of singing with the favorite being, What Would You Do with a Drunken Sailor? They whirled, kicked, and whirled again.

The sun started to go down, and David, Henry, Inola, and Numa went up to the stage, and called down the sun. The Wolfpack did a dance, changing them to reflect all their varied tribal dances. Then the Valkyries went up, and sang an ancient Norse fighting song, stamping with the drums, their knives in the air. Then, the Irish singers came back up, with pipe and drum and fiddle, and the singing and dancing began again. The songs were old, some of them in Gaelic, and they were amazing.

Ivy came up, and sang a wild skirling song about a queen, a king, a castle, and true love. They veered into modern times, playing The Proclaimers’ song, 500 Miles. The audience sang along, jumping up and down with their hands in the air, roaring in the dark. Each song lasted at least ten minutes, the audience dancing, stamping, and singing along. Little kids were brought over to the sides of the stage to dance, their faces bright, jumping and twirling in the dark. And the girls adorned beaded crowns with ribbons hanging down, the boys with little woven crowns of laurel leaves on their heads. Their mothers and fathers came in to dance with them from time to time. Everyone wanted to dance. The belly dancers danced right in the front of the stage, their zills ringing. Ivy jumped off the stage and did a wild dance with Callie, Skuld, Rota, Sigrun, and Wraith. The Valkyries tossed one another into the air to land on each other’s shoulders, then on the stage, making the crowd roar. The band literally played until they were cast off the stage by the security guards, who all wanted to go home.

Finally, the camels and horses were loaded to head back to their stables. The last meat pie was eaten, the last soda or water was drunk, and the booths were broken down. Herja, Skuld, Sigrun, Saber, and Wraith went to help their friends break down their booths.

Jake was there, in medieval garb, black pants and a flowing shirt. “Don’t need no help,” he said. “Sold our stuff, Triesta’s stuff, even Robert’s sister’s stuff. Hell, some of the Wolfpack went back and raided everything; even sold some of Hu’s stuff. Girl already got paid, got some camel rides out of it. Jie got scared and had to go home, still skittish around people. Callie fed them sweets and took them home. They’re having a girl’s night at Bao’s and the babies are with Nico ‘cause Callie came back. Little darlings are fast asleep, if you can believe it.” They all hugged him and helped him to load the empty glass jewelry cases into the truck. Henry and David were now in jeans, and they were laughing together while filling up the back of the van with empty boxes.

“Got enough to add on,” said Henry.

“Better not let Tito or Nico hear you say that,” said Wraith. They hugged all around. “They’ve finished two projects in the last two weeks and are starting two more.”

Henry laughed. “True. But, our list is getting longer, not shorter. Everyone likes what we’re doing. We already hosted some elders who want to do it on their reservations.”

“Why don’t you build there then, and let the elders run it?” said Skuld. Henry and David looked at each other. They stepped away, as the discussion ensued about how to rehab a building for the project on the various reservations.

Sigrun, Skuld, Rota, Saber, and Wraith carried their massive amount of booty to their Harleys. Motorcycle parking was far out; they had quite a hike, past the lake, and near ducks making wakes in the moonlit water. Wraith had attached a special seat back onto her Low Rider where they could lash the swords in a special case. They did, locked it up, and were ready to mount up for their own celebration when they heard the two shots and subsequent screaming. They all ran toward the sound, full-out, despite their exhausting day.

A man laid on his side, blood seeping into the ground. A crotch rocket started up, and Saber dashed back to his Harley to follow it. Exiting traffic that was in gridlock, the other gates to the park padlocked, so he had a reasonable chance of doing so. Skuld knelt and checked the wounds. There was one shot to the gut and the other to the head; the man’s eyes opened to nothing just as she started to kneel. He had sandy, close-cropped hair, with an expensive cut. He wore dark designer jeans, probably black, hard to see under the actinic glare of the yellow parking lot lights, and a short-sleeved shirt. He had expensive black boots and a silver-and-garnet ring on one finger. His watch was a designer timepiece.

“It’s Ray,” said Wraith, whipping out her phone. “He’s the district attorney.” She looked around, and no one seemed to be with him. One was a guy in a kilt, another (a woman in braids) who was wearing peasant garb, each a yard away, crouching behind cars. “Skuld, he’s gone. Back away. The rest of you, take pics. Skuld, you’ve got these two. Don’t let them leave.” Everyone nodded, and Wraith’s call connected. “Frenchie, this is Annika Jensen. The district attorney’s been shot, and he’s dead.” She gave her exact GPS location. “It’s at a Renaissance Faire, and almost everyone is exiting the park, so traffic is heavy. I suggest motorcycle cops get here first. No, they fled the scene.” Saber came roaring back, parked some distance away, took off his helmet, and shook his head. “Sadly, Special Agent Thahn could not catch the perpetrator, who escaped on a blue Kawasaki and is wearing a black motorcycle helmet, and a black vented jacket, oh, and dark pants or jeans. Yes. No. Yes. Understood.” She hung up. “Saber, the scene is yours.”

Lieutenant Joe Pocero was the first onto the scene, riding behind a motorcycle cop. He took his huge body off the bike, handed the helmet back to the officer, and stared down at Ray. “Well, fuck-a-duck,” he said. “Didn’t like him, didn’t want to see him dead, though. Only two witnesses?”

“We’re almost the last to leave,” said Wraith.

“This your scene?” he asked. “Saber, not you, Wraith. I know you’re Bannon and Gregory’s secret weapon.”

She grinned. “Won me a knife in a tournament today, too.”

“You cold in that getup?” asked Pocero.

“Nope,” said Wraith. “Have a problem with arena wear?”

“Nope,” said Pocero. He turned to the cop, who had parked his bike and stowed both helmets. “Davis, you get that witness, I’ll get this one,” said Pocero. Davis nodded, took out his notebook and a pen, and advanced on the woman, shivering from shock.

Special Agent French, FBI, showed up next, also on the back of a police bike. “Report,” she said to Saber. Saber gave his report, then Pocero and Davis. “This stinks,” she said, disgusted.

“More than you may know,” said Wraith.

“Walk with me,” said Special Agent French. They stepped out of the light, and Wraith told her all about Rolly, the trial, and the insanity of prosecuting a case with a former DEA agent providing the alibi. “Think he was dirty?” asked Frenchie.

“Have no idea,” said Wraith. “Reported everything to my ex-boss, and the judge knew something was up and called the assistant district attorney on the case, and into the chambers. Have no idea what happened next. Not my jungle, not my monkeys.”

Frenchie snorted. “Well, thanks very fucking much for handing me this jungle and the monkeys that may or may not be in the trees.”

“I aim to please,” said Wraith. Frenchie snorted, and went back to run through it with the two witnesses, before cutting them loose.

They were questioned by the FBI and the police, then cut loose. They got on their Harleys, and reconvened after a change of costume into jeans, T-shirts, boots, and leather jackets, spending time at an all-night waffle house. Bannon met them there; his employee and chief bottle-washer was involved. Over pecan waffles and bacon, they debated about what to do.

“You need to stay with someone 24/7,” argued Bannon.

Wraith snorted. “I’m an ex-agent with an agent husband, and a highly competent wife,” she said. Saber and Sigrun grinned evilly. “And, my condo has… security features.”

“Point,” said Herja. “And, we’re her sisters. We’ll hang around a tad more.”

“I keep trying to have sex with my spouses, and they keep showing up,” joked Wraith. “It’s very frustrating.”

Bannon snorted. “Too much information, methinks.”

“Why would anyone want to kill her?” asked Saber. “It’s all on record —her testimony, the fact she told the district attorney’s office four times he was innocent.”

“Plus, I recorded everything, written and digital,” said Wraith. “Turned it all over to both the prosecution and the defense.”

“If the district attorney is dirty, it’s on record,” said Saber. “Court records. Nothing that can be covered up.”

“It may be from another case, a pending one,” said Sigrun.

“Does anyone believe that?” asked Bannon. Everyone shook their heads. “So, this has to do with his being dirty, or something kinky with that trial, or information that has come up since then,” said Bannon.

“I already texted the defense attorney,” said Wraith. She said she was going to Reno for a conference.”

“Did anyone contact the current ADAs?” asked Bannon.

“Special Agent French said she would,” said Wraith.

“What about Rolly?” asked Bannon.

Wraith sighed. “Just got a text right before you came. Rolly’s dead. Shot last night on the street, gut and head, same as this one.”

“So, it’s a spree, a serial, or a cover-up,” said Saber. “Not a coincidence.”

Wraith ate her last bite of pecan waffle with honey, then chewed, swallowed. “No, it’s…”

The rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire pierced the night. They all slid to the ground, careful of breaking glass. There were only five other tables; they separated and went to pull people down onto the floor. The server had been chatting with the cook at the pass-through; both hit the ground. There was a squeal of tires, and the shooting stopped. Saber ran to see if he could see anything.

There was glass and food everywhere from slain salt and pepper shakers, ketchup and mustard bottles, and some shattered plates. Bannon bellowed for everyone to stay down, and Herja, Bannon, and Wraith did a person-by-person check out front as Sigrun bounded around the counter. Bannon was on the phone, keeping up a steady patter as he described the situation to the 911 operator.

“Server down, leg,” called out Sigrun.

Wraith jumped over the glass and ran back toward the lockers, where she found both a wall-mounted first aid kit and some clean aprons. She ran, slid, and got behind the counter. The woman was ashen, her face going gray, green eyes in slits. Her name tag said “Winnie.” Wraith and Sigrun got the wound clean and a pressure bandage on. There was a veritable lake of blood on the floor; she’d been hit in the femoral artery. As Bannon shouted for an ambulance, Winnie gasped, and died right there.

Wraith went around to the cook. Pedro had turned off all the burners, and he and Rai, the busboy, and Esteban, the dishwasher, were all in back, shivering. “Stay,” said Wraith. “They’ll ask questions, then send you home. Any of you illegal?” They shook their heads. “Anyone see who did it?” They all shook their heads again. “I’m sorry about Winnie. She seemed like a nice person. Just hang out, give your statement twice, probably, then you’ll be sent home.” She handed out her card. “This place’ll probably be closed for repairs. Call me tomorrow. I’ll give you some charge cards so you can pay the bills.” They all nodded.

“Why you so nice to us?” asked Rai. “Bein’ white an’ all.”

She said, “That fucker just killed someone tonight, probably killed two. White, black, brown, red, hell; pink with purple polka-dots, it doesn’t fucking matter. Some asshole with an automatic weapon.” They all bumped fists with her, and she walked back out front.

Lieutenant Pocero was there, surveying the damage, as the paramedics pronounced Winnie dead. “What are the chances of this not being related?” he bellowed to her; to all of them.

“Diddly and squat, Lieutenant,” said Wraith. “We just wanted some damn waffles.”

“We were also no longer in our medieval finery,” said Herja. “I don’t like being either followed, or shot at.”

“I’ll have someone sweep the bikes for trackers,” said Bannon.

“This is fucked up,” said Sigrun, coming back from around the counter with Wraith. “Been here before, and Winnie’s been my server before. She’s about thirty, married, two kids. Fucker who did this is going down.”

Special Agent French showed up, the coroner in tow. “Well, this does not bode well,” she said.

“Still doesn’t make sense,” said Wraith. “We didn’t get a clear look at the shooter from the last scene, and everything else is in court records.”

“Also, the shooter went from a single-shot weapon to automatic weapons fire,” said Saber. “Either two shooters, or two weapons. Possibly meant to make us believe some gangbangers did this.”

“Not their style,” said Wraith. “Generally, here, they go for asshole, flat-weapon shots that hit kids instead of the intended victim.” She held an imaginary gun out, rotated her hand until it was parallel to the ground, and pulled an imaginary trigger, twice.

“What the fucking hell is going on here?” boomed Assistant District Attorney Hector Capobianco.

“Why don’t you tell us? Starting with why you’re here and not safe somewhere?” asked Special Agent French.

“I went to see Ray’s body, and went to find the witnesses,” said Capobianco. “Heard about a shooting over the scanner. Who the fuck are you?”

“Special Agent French,” she said. “I know who you are. Get the fuck out of my crime scene and go home. We’ll be using federal prosecutors for this one.”

“I need to…” he said, taking a step forward. He then found himself with an arm up behind his back, as Special Agent French rushed him out the door and into the desert night.

“Oh ho,” said Bannon. “A clue.”

“A rat, methinks,” said Sigrun, falling into the cadence of the bard they’d listened to that day.

Wraith nodded her head. “I’ve worked with him before. Didn’t think he, or anyone in that office, was dirty. Or, I woulda taken them down myself.” She thought a minute. “Could be it wasn’t Ray.”

Bannon nodded. “Well, you Valkyries have someone to protect.” They all looked at Wraith. “Fine. Now Pocero, get us the hell interviewed so we can go home and I can get my guns.”

The interviews took several hours, both Pocero and FBI. They finally all went home. Sigrun, Wraith, and Saber all got into the shower, first Saber and Sigrun, then Wraith and Sigrun. They washed each other, dried each other, and then Saber braided Wraith’s hair, while Wraith braided Sigrun’s hair. They all climbed, exhausted, into bed, Wraith in the middle.

Wraith had her first nightmare in a long time, of a metal box slamming into her side, of flying through the air, of the sickening crunch onto the ground. Those ugly moments of her life dilated, repeated, along with the pain, and all the exhausting hours of recovery time. The fear she’d never walk again, or ever speak correctly. Then, her brain went back to the assassination attempt, then mingled with the gunshots at the waffle restaurant, hiding under the table, and her frustration for leaving her gun at home. She woke up screaming, with Sigrun whispering into her ear, Saber shaking her to wake her up, and both of them holding her when she came out of it.

She shook, wept tears of rage and pain, and held onto both of them until it passed. Then, she grabbed Sigrun, and kissed her, gently at first, then hard. The shaking wouldn’t stop, but by then she just wanted to fight her way into life. Saber kissed her hair, slid his hands down her breasts, and parted her legs. He ran his hands under her buttocks, kissed and nibbled her thighs. He made her come and come repeatedly, with his blessed tongue, and she came hard, fast, with her body breaking apart, again and again. She felt like a leaf floating on the wind, and pulled him on her, in her. She wanted to lose something, destroy something, in the blast of her heat.

Sigrun took over, resplendent in her rage, her pain, her inability to fix Wraith’s core. “I can’t take it away,” she whispered into Wraith’s ears, and into her mouth. “I can only love you.”

“We can love you,” said Saber, cleaning them both up with a wet wipe.

Their screams and cries mounted, hands everywhere, then sliding into their wanting, wet heat. Soon both women came in great juddering gasps and moans. They laid there, shaking, for a long time, and Saber cleaned them up again. They held on, one on each side of Wraith, holding her tight. She kept kissing them, one and then the other, until she finally slammed into sleep.

They were all silent as they got up, dressed, ate egg, bacon, and English-muffin breakfast sandwiches, and went about their day. Saber had court, so he went off to wait to be called, then testify against three cartel members, in federal court. Sigrun had a mural to paint, so she rode with Wraith to Skuld’s class, then went on her way. Wraith had some rage to let go of, so she sparred with the law enforcement officers, a mix of DEA, ATF, and FBI agents. She threw people and was thrown, rolling around like a billiard ball. Finally, two classes later, Wraith exhausted herself, after the hard work sparring in the sun the day before, and from the broken night, just gone.

“PTSD sucks,” said Skuld. “Drink your water and go take a shower. And go easy. I had to stop you from dislocating Cargill’s shoulder and from breaking Rosa’s neck.”

Wraith nodded and took the shower. She came out to find Skuld there with a towel. “Dry yourself, get dressed. I’ll be out soon.” Skuld went for her own shower.

“Yes, boss!” said Wraith, mockingly.

“Now,” said Skuld. “Food. Barbecue, I think.” She rode, and Wraith followed. They went to a nearby barbecue restaurant, and ate pork sandwiches and fries, washing them down with Cokes. “Now, we’re both exhausted, and I have paperwork to do. There’s a cot in my office.” They went back to Skuld’s office, where she filled out paperwork.

A band was warming up in her mixing studio, the same one from the night before, the Gaelic one. A young man in all-black was at the controls. Skuld nodded at him and went back to the office. Skuld was halfway through a stack of correspondence and bills when Wraith’s phone slipped out of her hand. Skuld grabbed it, closed the eBook program, then put a soft maroon blanket over Wraith. She put the phone in Wraith’s vented jacket pocket.

Skuld got through the whole stack of paperwork, and went out to mix with Skull, her mixer trainee. The skirls of the pipe and fiddle and the beat of the drum had her dancing in her seat as she mixed. She got a good session out of them; they’d spent the entire afternoon and half the night warming up for this one.

Rota came home from her climb and hike, her hair still wet from the shower, her arm bandaged. Skuld pointed at the arm, then gave the band a five-minute break.

Rota laughed and kissed Skuld. “Newbie. Slipped. Idiot wiggled around like a fish on the line in panic. Scraped my arm on a rock dragging his fool-ass up. I made him dress it. Man has to learn some time.”

Skuld kissed her again and jerked her head backward. “Sleeping Beauty Wraith is in there. Her PTSD is coming out; the shooting brought it back from the accident.

“Bastards,” said Rota. “We hear anything?”

“Bannon’s right pissed,” said Skuld. “Don’t see this as a mystery for all that long.”

“We keep our girl safe, and let him do his thing,” said Rota. “I think this is going to get even uglier than it is.”

“I do too,” said Skuld. “It’s gonna get nasty. I’m even contemplating heading to Key West for some Maine lobster until this clears up. She’s been through too-fucking-much for this to happen, now. She’s tough, strong, but she’s no longer in an alphabet agency. If she pokes her nose in, she can go to jail, and I’ll make you a solid bet that the bad guys have people in there.”

“The Keys are good this time of year,” said Rota. “Make a great ride. We have to extricate ourselves a little bit, or move stuff forward to get it done, but…”

“But our girl is worth it,” said Skuld.

“Fuckin’ A,” said Rota.

Both women looked at Wraith as she slept. She was too damn important to all of them. They needed to protect her, no matter what. They needed to be her rock, like she had been for so many others over the years. They smiled at one another, knowing how much they loved her as a Valkyrie sister.

“A renaissance is a new beginning. If you find yourself in one, then begin.”