Demon Stories

Beau: The Flying Apple, 1853, England

Beau

The Flying Apple

1853, England

The gorgeous red apple in my hand shimmered with the morning dew. Tossing it up in the air many times, the intense creature before me followed it with her lovely large blue eyes like it was an enchanted thing.

"This apple," I told her with mystery, "it has nothing to do with demons."

She just turned her head to the side a little, questionable.

I giggled. "It goes up, it comes down. When a demon goes up, it does not have to come down."

Her red lips parted and my heart curled like a leaf. "I don't understand," she responded in awe, staring still at my apple.

"Its simple, my love," I smiled. "We are going to play a game. Would you like to play a game?"

She was staring at me like I was the Prince of Heaven. A God himself. Her eyes were locked on me, never wavering, as if wavering would cause me to disappear. She had good reason. I had seen this look on others before her, and she really had good reason to be cautious. For, like the one called Eros, I was likely to disappear. But this young one. She had no idea what hold she had on me. Those grey blue eyes were wanting to never let me go, and I never wanted to let them disappear from my sight.

"Take my hand, my dear," I spoke softly, extending my slender hand to her. She wordlessly extended her own, and my heart was in the sky when I felt her soft and beautiful hand.

This was all it took to manifest my wings, this feeling of wanting to soar up higher and higher. Because of her lovely soft hand, this feeling in my heart, we could fly forever. 

Her face changed to one of pure surprise, with a miniscule hint of fear. But the fear looked in awe instead of terror. A look I cherished. I wanted to show her everything, change her perception of the awful world. Seeing this look made me know I was indeed succeeding. I wanted to fill her world with love, light, and wonder instead of fear, loathing, and terror. These last three were the sighs of demons the world over, but it didn't have to be that way for her. Not when I was here to protect her and show her different.

Her other hand extended to my shoulder and instinctively I stood still as a portrait. My entire body felt shy as she moved to touch my wings. 

"Black wings," she said softly, her fingers separating and smoothing the feathers on top. I felt every single one. My shoulder blades felt numb in response, so nervous I was. For many minutes, all was silent save for the rustling of the long light green grass surrounding us. The sweet, cool wind breezed by us in hope, causing the grass to whisper good wishes.

Breathing in slow motion, keeping a rhythm to calm myself, I rose my arm to her and found the laces on the back of her dress. My hand touched the cords of the intricate corsetry like a shy child. How to grip her without violating her lady sensibilities? But as my hand touched her laces like a spider, I realized after a time how her own hand had frozen on my wing. She was sensing me, her nervousness bleeding through like watercolors on thin paper.