Demon's Hide

Maxence the Living Painting

Female Main Character x Male Monster

Growing up, our home was always filled with artwork. For generations, my family has been artists and collectors. My father was both, and my mother was an auctioneer who also collected artwork. As a child, we made it a tradition to change the artwork every summer. I can remember walking into the storage building out back with my father and seeing the rows upon rows of paintings all stacked so neatly inside. It was like a library the way my parents had it organized. My dad used to call it the Art Locker.

When I was little, I would sneak into the Art Locker, and I would hide there. It was always cool in there, due to the special air conditioning unit that kept it the same temperature at all times to protect the artwork. It has a unique smell to it too. All the paint mixed together with the scent of the disinfectant and cleaner Mom used. It felt safe in there. I used to love wandering around, and stealing peeks at the covered artwork. I also felt terrible for the artwork. I had always been taught that artwork was to be seen and admired. The painters and artists worked, sometimes years, on their craft and that dedication and love, and talented deserved to be seen. Yet, the same people who taught me that, kept most of their prized collection tucked away.

One day, my mother got delivery from an unknown source. She said it was from a relative of ours, she wasn't quite sure how we were related, somehow they just were. They owned an antique shop, and they had gotten in these paintings they weren't sure how to price or do anything with, so they gave them to her. Most of them were unframed canvases, and Mom didn't look too enthused with them.

"They're old for sure," mom sighs as she looks them over.

"This one is pretty," you say. The painting depicts a lovely young man dressed in royal purples and golds. He's standing in a garden full of roses and hydrangea. In the distance, there are the white peaks and towers of a castle.

"There is no signature though, no way of knowing who painted it," my mother sighs. "I'll have to get Varrick to come look at these." I watch as she tucks the paintings away, and it is probably the last time we even think of them for a while. My mother forgets about them, forgets calling her appraiser Varrick, and I forget too. For a while at least.

My father saw a talent in me when I was young, something he said could become great and admirable someday. So, I was sent away to a private school where I could be classically trained in traditional painting and arts. After that, I traveled, interning under several famous artists and learning from them. Most of them were pompous and weird, actually all of them. It's hard to find an artist who is down to earth these days. I found I learned more for street artists than the professionals. So that was where I tended to drift. One of my favorites was a woman who painted with wine and coffee, and she taught me more about art than I ever knew.

She also told fortunes using the old coffee grounds from her art supplies. One night, during one of our long painting sessions she decides to read me my fortune.

"The love of your life is waiting on you," she murmurs.

I laugh at this. It's totally ridiculous. "How can that be?"

"You met them long ago, and they've loved you ever since," she says, her eyes are unfocused, and she seems to be staring into a great distance. I look into the pot, seeing the coffee grounds and not much else. I look at her and shake my head.

"There's no way," I murmur unsurely.

"Your mother introduced you," she whispers.

That is even more unlikely. My mom wanted me to get married, but she never liked anyone enough to introduce me to them. "Are you sure it's me?"

"He's French," she says. "And very handsome."

I throw my hands up in the air. "Ok, you've lost me."

She smirks at me and laughs, her eyes coming back into focus. "You should go back home," she tells me.