Golden ichor dripped from her lips as she set the wine glass to the side. Her ballerinas paid no attention to the drooping and dripping heads of Judithe's guests, choked and sputtered out onto their plates. She watched the dancers slice through the air and spin across the polished wooden floor, and one corner of her mouth slid upward. This golden death would bring her golden life and she would open as many golden throats as she needed until, one day, bursting into the air like a spiraling storm of shadow and golden mist, she would rise triumphant. Happiness could and would be hers, and she would fight until her last day so that no one could take it from her again.

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