Hired Freydis

I wasn’t alone for long. There were the firm clicks of someone approaching in heels over hardwood floors. I didn’t want to assume it was a woman. Raith Manor was that kind of place.
A tall figure in a close-fit black business suit approached me through one of the swaths of dim light. Dark red hair, cropped close to her head, intent sea green eyes—with scar tissue at their corners. She moved like an athlete and looked about thirty—but something about the way she regarded me as she came closer made me wary, and I took note of the fact that her knuckles were swollen with scars.
“Good evening, Mister Dresden,” she said, smiling slightly. “If you will follow me, I’ll take you to Ms. Raith.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, and we started walking deeper into the manor. The place looked like it had been furnished by the Louvre. I’d lived in apartments that cost less to build than a few square feet of the château.
It took me maybe twenty seconds to be pretty sure of my guess. “What, did Vadderung throw some kind of bargain-basement sale on renting out his Valkyries?”
“Monoc Securities provides consultants in many places, sir,” the redhead said. She gave me a smile with maybe four teeth too many in it, and her voice turned into a purr. “Though I’d be interested to hear what you mean by bargain-basement.”
Valkyries were superhumanly strong, swift, and tough and had the kind of experience that comes with agelessness. And they didn’t just like fighting—they lusted for it. I’d seen a Valkyrie in action before. I didn’t particularly want to take one on for funsies, and this Valkyrie walked with a kind of steady, inevitable confidence that said that walls would be well advised to stay out of her way.
“It wasn’t an insult for you personally,” I said. “I’m playing.”
“Don’t I look playful to you?” she asked.
“You look like you play rough,” I said.
The woman let out a laugh that came up straight from her belly. “You’ve got eyes and you use them, seidrmadr.” She regarded me speculatively. “Most men don’t know to show some respect.”
“You have much trouble correcting them?”
“No, I don’t,” she said calmly. “My sister says you’re all right in a bad spot.”
“Sister?” I asked. “Oh, Sigrun Gard?”
“Obviously,” she said. She offered me her hand. “Freydis Gard.”
“Harry.” I took her hand. She had a grip like a pneumatic clamp, and my bandaged hands were sensitive. “Ouch, be gentle with me.”


Peace Talks Chapter 14, Page 126-127