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Snippet: Kiss of Glamour
The Dime
wilowisp
Giddeon carried the kiss around for days, allowing himself to be reminded at sparse intervals and carefully doling out small dosages of fresh excitement. It wouldn't due to use it up so quickly, not when such things were in short supply. A kiss, given freely by a mortal, in the time between dawn and sunrise. Truly, any kiss at all was cause for celebration in the midst of the war, but this one might see him through until the Treaty was to be signed in a fortnight.

Douglas was jealous of the kiss for many reasons, though he tried to hide it within his robes of green pine. He called the kiss paltry and flighty, nothing that could stand up to the brunt of the winter or the burn of the summer. And Douglas had gathered his share of kisses, from mortal and fae alike, to know something of it. Giddeon would have conceded that it was not a kiss to pierce the dead of night like a beacon, had Douglas been looking for a response. But as always, Douglas was more interested in the sound of his own voice, and so Giddeon did not stick around long enough to figure out the most pressing of the evergreen's jealousies.

Instead, Giddeon flitted along the marches, watching the goblin lights hang mournfully in the sites of fresh battle. He stalked the places of long shadows, and the underside of the Important Bridges. He made his rounds, and then returned to the Abbey, kiss stowed safely away in his pocket, feeling briefly invincible whenever he thought of that cool morn. A laugh, a coy look, a less than accidental brush against the shoulder.

One night, he awoke to find Deborah had left her eternally-flashing TV screen, and was standing over him, her diminutive figure outlined by the harsh electrics from the other room. Before he could ask what was wrong, she put her hand over his heart, and frowned. Then she looked into his eyes, sighed heavily, and slashed her finger across her throat.
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