Part 2: The Carmine Family and Burden of Mercy

When Vaggie awoke, she was no longer in the dark alley. The air was thick with the scent of incense and... something floral. Pain still lanced through her body, but the sharpest edge had been dulled. Her back was bandaged, the bloodied wounds cleaned with surprising care.

Vaggie tried to move, but a soft, yet firm hand pressed her back down. "Don't strain yourself, chica," a voice said gently. It was accented, warm, and oddly comforting.

Vaggie's eyes focused on a face—a young girl, perhaps no older than her, with long, blonde hair tied in a ponytail, pale white skin and striking, scarlet eyes covered by red round glasses.

"Where... where am I?" Vaggie croaked, her voice hoarse.

"You're safe," the girl replied. "Well, as safe as one can be in Hell." She smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I'm Odette, and this is my sister, Clara."

Another girl, nearly the same age she had puce skin, curly cream hair tied up in an updo, and black lips, she appeared beside Oddette, holding a bowl of steaming broth. Odette placed it on a small table near the bed. "You were hurt pretty bad," Odette said, her tone more serious than Clara's. "We found you bleeding out in the alley. Looked like one of those Exterminator types, but... not quite."

Vaggie tensed at the mention of Exterminators. She should have fought, should have killed them both for being demons. But her body was too weak, and their hands, though demonic, were gentle as they nursed her wounds.

"Why?" Vaggie whispered, confused. "Why help me? I'm... I'm an angel."

Clara shrugged, her expression softening. "Maybe we're just nice like that." She glanced at her sister, who rolled her eyes. "Or maybe we're curious. You don't see an Exorcist down here looking like you do. Most of them are heartless killing machines. You? You've still got some soul left."

The door to the room creaked open, and a figure entered—a woman, tall and imposing, with long thick white and black streaked hair cascading down her back. Her eyes were a piercing red, sharp and intelligent, and she carried herself with the grace of a queen. This was Carmilla, the girls' mother.

She approached the bed, her gaze appraising Vaggie with an intensity that made the fallen angel squirm. "You should have died," Carmilla stated, not unkindly, but with a matter-of-fact tone. "But you didn't. So now, I suppose you belong to me."

Vaggie's heart raced. This woman was powerful—dangerous even. But there was something else in her eyes, something that wasn't purely demonic. It was understanding.

Carmilla's lips curled into a smile that was both comforting and terrifying. "Rest, little angel. You're not in Heaven anymore, but Hell doesn't have to be your enemy. We can be... allies, of sorts."

Vaggie's mind whirled, confusion and fear battling with exhaustion. The teachings of Heaven, the cruelty of her sister, the mercy she had shown—they all clashed within her. But in this strange, twisted family, Vaggie felt the first flicker of something she hadn't felt in a long time—hope.

As the days passed, Vaggie found herself slowly healing, not just in body, but in spirit. The Carmine sisters were her constant companions, their kindness a stark contrast to the brutality she had known. They were demons, yes, but they weren't what she had been taught to believe. They were... like family.

And Carmilla, though she was a creature of Hell, became a mentor of sorts. She didn't demand Vaggie abandon her past, but she offered a different perspective—a life where strength didn't have to come from cruelty, where power could be used for protection, not just destruction.

But Vaggie knew, deep down, that this peace wouldn't last forever. Lute was still out there, and Heaven would not tolerate her failure. She was a fallen angel now, and the line between Heaven and Hell had never been so blurred.

But perhaps, just perhaps, there was a place for her in this world—this Hell—where she could finally find her own path, free from the chains of her past.

Vaggie's recovery was a torturous process, both physically and mentally. The realization that her wings were gone struck her with a profound sense of loss, as if a part of her very soul had been torn away. She reached back one day, hoping beyond hope to feel the familiar softness of her feathers, but instead, her fingers only brushed over the rough, scarred skin where her wings had once been. A sharp pang of grief surged through her, and she nearly collapsed, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it.

Her missing eye was another cruel reminder of her failure. The socket had been hastily bandaged, the wound still fresh and throbbing with each beat of her heart. She had no mirror, but she didn't need one to know how disfigured she was. The world now appeared distorted, her depth perception thrown off, and simple tasks became a struggle.

Carmilla was the one who found her that day, crumpled on the floor, tears streaming down her face. The demoness didn't offer empty words of comfort. Instead, she helped Vaggie back onto the bed, her touch firm but gentle, a silent promise that she wouldn't let her fall again.

"You've lost much," Carmilla said quietly, brushing a stray lock of silver hair away from Vaggie's face. "But you're still here. That means something, chica."

It was a simple truth, but one Vaggie clung to. She was still here, still alive—if this existence could be called living. But what kind of life could she have now, crippled and abandoned by the very Heaven she had served?

Learning to walk again was an ordeal. Vaggie's legs, once strong and swift, were now weak, trembling with every step. The first time she tried to stand on her own, she collapsed almost immediately, the pain in her back flaring up like a wildfire.

"Don't push yourself too hard," Clara said, hovering close by. She and Odette took turns helping Vaggie with her rehabilitation, their presence a constant source of support. "You're still healing."

Vaggie gritted her teeth, frustration boiling within her. She wasn't used to feeling so helpless, so dependent on others. Her entire life had been about strength, about proving herself, and now she couldn't even stand without assistance.

Carmilla observed her progress with a critical eye, but there was no cruelty in her gaze, only a strange mix of expectation and patience. "Strength isn't just about how well you can fight or how fast you can run," she told Vaggie one evening after another grueling session. "It's about how well you can endure. You've survived Hell, niña. That's no small feat."

Vaggie wasn't sure if she believed that, but she kept pushing herself, determined to regain some semblance of her former self. The process was agonizing—her muscles screamed in protest, her balance was off, and every step felt like a monumental effort. But she refused to give up. The alternative—lying in that bed forever, wallowing in self-pity—was unthinkable.

The Carmine sisters were patient, never rushing her but always encouraging her to try just a little bit more. They would support her under each arm as she practiced walking, their youthful faces set in determined expressions. Odette would sometimes make a game of it, challenging Vaggie to reach a certain point in the room without falling. Clara would offer words of praise when she managed even the smallest improvement.

There were days when Vaggie wanted to scream, to rage against her weakened body and the cruel fate that had left her so broken. But the sisters' unwavering support, their gentle persistence, kept her going. They weren't just helping her walk; they were teaching her to live again, to find strength in her vulnerability.

As Vaggie grew stronger, Carmilla introduced her to new forms of combat—ones that didn't rely on her missing wings or impaired vision. Carmilla's methods were different from the harsh training Vaggie had endured in Heaven. There was a fluidity to her movements, a grace that came from centuries of experience, and she taught Vaggie how to use her remaining strengths to compensate for her weaknesses.

"Use what you have, not what you've lost," Carmilla would say during their training sessions. "Your mind is still sharp, your reflexes quick. Don't mourn what you can't change—adapt."

It was easier said than done, but Vaggie found herself improving, little by little. Her balance was better now, and she could move with a semblance of her former agility. The loss of her eye was still a challenge, but Carmilla showed her how to use her other senses to compensate.

"Trust in what you can feel, what you can hear," Carmilla instructed, tapping her on the shoulder to prompt her to pivot in response. "Hell isn't just about sight—it's about knowing how to survive, how to anticipate."

In the evenings, after the day's training was done, Vaggie would often sit by the fireplace in the Carmine household, a soft blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Clara and Odette would chat beside her, their voices a comforting background noise as they talked about the latest gossip in Hell, or teased each other with the easy familiarity of siblings.

Despite herself, Vaggie found comfort in their presence. She had spent her entire existence surrounded by her "sisters" in Heaven, but that connection had always been tied to duty and expectation. Here, with Clara and Odette, it was different. They didn't expect anything from her—they didn't demand perfection or loyalty. They simply wanted her to be... herself.

But who was she now? The question haunted Vaggie in the quiet moments when the pain wasn't so bad and her mind wasn't focused on the next step, the next movement. Was she still an angel, even without her wings? Could she ever return to Heaven, or had she fallen too far?

And more importantly, did she want to return?

The more time she spent with the Carmines, the more she began to question everything she had ever known. Heaven had cast her aside without a second thought, her sister Lute had nearly killed her for showing mercy, and yet these demons—these supposed "monsters"—had taken her in, nursed her back to health, and treated her with a kindness she had never known.

It was during one of these quiet evenings that Carmilla approached her, sitting down beside her in front of the fire. The demoness was silent for a long time, simply watching the flames dance in the hearth. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, almost contemplative.

"Do you know why I helped you?" Carmilla asked, her crimson eyes glinting in the firelight.

Vaggie shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. She had wondered about it often but had never dared to ask.

Carmilla smiled, a small, sad smile. "Because I saw a little of myself in you. I wasn't always like this, you know. I was once like you—full of fire, driven by a sense of righteousness. But Hell has a way of changing you, showing you things you'd rather not see."

Vaggie frowned, unsure of what to make of Carmilla's words. "You were... an angel?"

Carmilla laughed softly, a sound tinged with bitterness. "Not quite. But close enough. I had a purpose once, a mission. But I learned, as you are learning, that the world isn't as black and white as we're taught to believe. There's more to Hell than just demons and sinners. There's more to Heaven than just angels and purity."

Vaggie's mind reeled at the implication. Could it be true? Could Carmilla have once been something more than just a demon? The thought was both terrifying and strangely comforting.

"Stay with us, Vaggie," Carmilla continued, her voice gentle but firm. "You don't have to go back to Heaven. You don't have to face that pain again. Here, you can be whoever you want to be. No one will judge you. No one will demand you be something you're not."

Vaggie's heart twisted in her chest. The offer was tempting—so tempting. To leave behind the pain, the expectations, the brutality of Heaven, and forge a new life here in Hell. But could she really do it? Could she really abandon everything she had known, everything she had fought for?

But what was left for her in Heaven? Her wings were gone, her eye was lost, and she was now a pariah, a fallen angel in the eyes of her own kind. Returning would mean facing judgment, perhaps even death. And Lute—her sister would never forgive her for what she had done, for the mercy she had shown.

The decision wasn't made in a single moment. It was a gradual realization, a slow acceptance of what she had known deep down since the moment Carmilla had first helped her: there was no going back.

Vaggie had fallen, and she had survived. But survival wasn't enough. She needed more. She needed a purpose, a new path. And maybe, just maybe, that path lay with the Carmine family.

She turned to Carmilla, her resolve hardening. "I'll stay," she said, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside her. "But I want to learn more. I want to understand Hell, understand myself. I can't be what I was, but maybe I can be something... better."

Carmilla's smile was warm, genuine. "Then you will, chica. And we'll be here with you every step of the way little one."

to be continued