She stands up in the garden and brushes the roses from her hips. Her eyes are gold. And yesterday Avalanche was the name of a girl in Boston who lived for cocaine and Kahlua; she had thin fingers and beautiful veins, but girls like that only waste their names. The flowergirl kissed it away and left her dreamless, forgotten, dead.

The man she's after is oil paints and rough blank canvas. He spills his wine when he sees her and she sips it from his life line, his fate line, his sex line, she curls her tongue over his fingertips and watches him blush. Leaves him gasping over soft mothwing lips.

"Nidhoggr chews at the roots of the world," she says. Her voice drips like fresh honey. "I can sing for you."

And the wineglass is broken, but he doesn't know. His eyes are hungry for her shoulders, her calves. He nods.

"Take me inside," she says.