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Vain attemps, Chapter:??

This story is one I thought of on a whim thats kinda stayed. 

It follows Vanity, an aspect of life, and shares the spot light wth her girlfriend, Suihō, a aspect of death, and their partner, Devin, the aspect of destiny. On the day of the trio's graduation, several places on earth, nicknamed 'portals to hell' open, leaving people confused and scared as demons pour out, but science and the government have that taken care of..right? Vanity thinks working a office job at her neglectful mothers banking firm is hard, until the leading secretary and resident milf turns into a demon. Not that she didn't act lik one before. In a blind panic, Vanity finds herself taking action against the monster, throwing things at it as it attempts to snake on a bratty kid. Fresh out of objects, Vanity tackles the creature, latching onto its back, and emiting a fierce glow. The monster, much to her surprise, buckles, having had a heart attack. Instead of a thank you, the authorities are called, forcing the young woman to flee with her partners, only to be joined by the last known Life and Death, a married couple, here to help the youngsters figure out how to use their powers. And break the thrupple up.

1678, Derbyshire, England

The cobbled roads were filled with screams of the men, women, and children that ran desperately from the approching threat. It wasn't even midday yet, and already the forces of evil were about, set on causing enough anarchy and death for their masters to rise. Cackles, neighs, the sounds of carts taking off, mere seconds after the first church was set ablaze. It was no surprise honestly, anyone in a carriage might tramble their sweet elderly nun if death was close enough behind. The sickening crunch of bones and flesh being squished under wooden wheels and hooves wasn't even the worst of it, Tom thought, as he pressed his crouched body closer to the wall of the pub, trying to keep his lanky leg close to his body, hidden by the barrels.

Unable to walk, his leg had been wounded by a shard of colored glass that exploded off of the church. The blood was pooling around him, leaving a bloody stream to flow down the uneven streets. The trail was impossibly long from the church to the pub, not ten feet away. Ashamed, Tom felt the tears roll down his cheeks, his gasps of air punctered by curses as he clenched the edge of a closed barel, his eyes not on the streets, but to his gushing leg, his brown eyes, set deep in his haggard, young face, were surrounded by trails of clean, wet strips, where his salty tears cleaned away the grime from working in the fields, and were completely held by the large, six inch shard of yellow glass, burried just inside his calf. He did not hear as the town went silent, did not know what had happened, as he passed out.

The lady that found our current protagonist was beautiful. For his hard, deeply tanned and scarred body, Her's was that of fine spun sugar. Soft, pale, and without a mark. For his dirty, cheap clothing of raw, scratchy wool, Her's was clean, besides the blood seeping into her white skirt hems ans satin like shoes. For his greasy, brittle, dull blond hair, her black waves of silk were clean, held in place with lillies of the purest white. His brown eyes, glassy under his parted lids, were held with fascination by Her's, until the blue eyes, set in the soft, feminine face moved to his leg. She feared the man was dead. But That was fine. He was the best, or he would learn to be, soon enough. After all, a man dead was what the spell called for. 

Though the street was littered with men crossed over a plenty, the one Gwen wanted was tom, so the tiny little gal picked him up, cooing soft nothing at the mans cold and lifeless body into her arms like a mere babe as she ran down the roads, enjoying how his blood made her dress stick to her sculptued calves, and made her shoes slap the grround. It wa all his! Black hair fluttering behind her as she jumped over the bodies littering the ground. Weaving around the smashed carts, not even the bray of a horse caught her attention. She ignored even as the wounded beast tugged at its restraints. Her mind did not even mourn for the fallen witches, her own coven. They had died painful deaths, all for an unnoble cause as Lillith had hidden, waiting. Her retreat was not hindered, and it might amaze you, dear reader, that this was the body Life had chosen to make its own. Did the spirit not care for its creations in its hury to make someone anew? Its hard to say, but as the woman was dressing our fallen Tom's leg, she was adding his dried blood, his tears, sweat and soul to her spell. Life for a hundred years would be a horrible thing. 

This is a rough draft, and I'd love some criticism!!