them
a former professional boxer, it’s that I’ll know when I can pull a punch.” He glanced at her aristocratic hands. “You won’t.”She dropped her hands. “I have come to the same conclusion.” The words were final, definite. She took Mike and Rebecca by their arms and began leading them to the door. “Wisdom begins with knowing your limitations. I know mine. I know what I can do, and what I can’t.”
Mike suddenly slowed. Melissa glanced at him, then followed his eyes.
Gretchen was clearly visible through the window. She was scolding one of the children, shaking her finger. Apparently, the boy had started to climb onto one of the cafeteria’s tables in order to get a closer look at the lighting. The celerity with which he climbed down was utterly comical. The imp obeying the goddess.
She looked like a Teutonic goddess, thought Melissa. Bathrobe be damned. Clean, her hair was blond. Dark blond, but definitely blond. The long tresses framed a face that fell just outside of beauty simply because the features were so strong. The finger was shaken by the large hand of a shapely but powerful arm, attached to a shapely and powerful shoulder. Everything about her was cut from that cloth. Her breasts, as large as they so obviously were under the thin bathrobe, looked as if they were held up by armor. Melissa, remembering Gretchen’s naked body, knew that the rest of her matched what was visible.
“Who is that?” asked Rebecca. Her eyes widened. “Is that the woman—?”
Happily, Melissa nodded. “Yeah, that’s her. You heard the story, I take it?”
Rebecca nodded. “Michael told me. The woman who hid her sisters in a cesspool—and then stood there, straight up, waiting for—” She shuddered. “I can hardly imagine such courage.”
Mike stared at Gretchen through the window for a moment longer, before adding: “Jesus, what a Valkyrie.”
Melissa shook her head. “No, Mike. You’re very wrong.” She scowled. “Valkyries!” The word was almost a curse. “Leave it to the sick and twisted mind of Richard Wagner to glorify a Valkyrie.”
Again, she took her companions by the arm and began walking toward the door. “A Valkyrie is just a vulture. A death-worshipper. ‘Choosers of the slain,’ they were called, as if that were something to be proud of.”
She stopped abruptly, almost yanking them up short. Her finger, extended, pointed to Gretchen.
“That young woman, on the other