pure vanilla

Evening was falling on the small town in the valley. An old church stood on the edge of a hill. Inside, at the altar, the angel Pure Vanilla—blond with yellow and blue eyes, in a black robe, with white wings—was trimming the dying candles. The service had ended, the parishioners had dispersed, and he admired the sunset from the window.

Suddenly, there was a dull thud—something large had crashed onto the rocks beneath the window. Pure winced and looked out. Lying on the ground was a creature with black-and-blue membranous wings. One wing was twisted out, and dark blood was seeping from beneath it.

The angel hesitated for only a moment, fear warring with compassion, but he took the lantern and first aid kit and went out.

A demon lay before him: long, blue-black hair streaked with white, pale, bluish skin covered in cuts, a broken wing, a tail twitching spasmodically. A crown-shaped birthmark lay on one eye, the eye itself half-closed.

Pure froze. He'd heard that such demons were dangerous. But before him was simply a wounded creature, in pain.