The shovel scraped through the dirt, audibly in the cold air under the crescent moon. Too loud, he would have thought when he was younger, too loud, but that was only tension speaking. He was used to this now, he knew no one could hear.
There it was, the wooden board he'd been looking for; he shoveled more dirt, and the form of the box was revealed. The coffin was a cheap one—little sense in extravagence for someone who'd been ignobly executed, even one who'd been from wealth.
He remembered how Marielle de'Mogren had looked in life—haughty and dignified—cold. So cold, he wouldn't have thought she lay with her own husband more than he insisted upon, let alone with any other man. He wasn't the only one who'd been surprised when the scandal broke out. In the coffin, she looked much the same, arrogant even in rest, her head laid back on a neck severed clean by the guillotine's blade. Still fresh enough, the grave robber nodded to himself. Laying the lid back on the coffin, he dragged it back to his wagon and set about covering the evidence of his disturbance. Robbing the grave of a baroness, even one who'd gone to the guillotine for her betrayal of the cantankerous old baron, was not something one did lightly, and his experience lay mainly in tampering with peasant graves. The opportunity, though, had been too much to pass up. Once the defiled grave had been covered to his satisfaction, he hurried back to the wagon and urged his sullen mules to go, carrying their prize back to his lair in the forests skirting the town.
Back in his laboratory, he lay the remains of the baroness upon his table, then carefully peeled away the cheap shroud around her with a large knife, leering as he watched the body exposed to him that he'd fantasized about a hundred times, seeing her haughtily riding in parades or standing on the balcony of the baronial palace when her husband issued decrees. Still in good condition; she'd been laid in the ground as recently as that morning. He could not believe his luck.
With utmost care, he began to wash the clotted gore from the stump of her lovely neck, caressing it through the cleaning rag with a touch like a lover's. The dead flesh was silent and unyeilding, already somewhat stiff. Adjusting her hair out of the way, he made sure the stump was well-cleaned on both ends before moving on, cleaning every little bit of the skin on her face and studying her lovely features as he did so.
Once he had cleaned the body thoroughly, he took up a needle from among the surgical tools at his side, threading it expertly and adjusting the baroness' severed head to lie flush against the stump of her neck to be reattached. Each stitch was placed with care, his bony fingers held as steadily as possible. The guillotine had done clean work, as usual, but he wanted the attachment to be as neat as it could be. Carefully, carefully, thread followed needle through each little stitch in the flesh, binding back together what had been divided.
When she was mended to his liking, the stitching of her neck was covered as he fastened a black, lace-trimmed choker around the front of her neck, a jewel as red as blood on its front gleaming in the candlelight. A dress, too, went onto her, something almost alike to what she would have worn in life, but cheap, a whore's dress, a mockery with the skirt too short, the stockings too revealing, the shade of burgundy lustful. Her loins he left bare, to be exposed by the simplest flipping of skirt and petticoat, his wizened hand stroking the cloth into place to give her that paltry modesty for now.
Her face, too, could not be forgotten. Carefully, he painted her lips and each eyelid, brushing dark mascara into the lashes, shadow onto the lids. It was a tender art for such gnarled fingers to perform, making sure every little detail was just so. Beautiful. The sight of her dead body so serene before him was breathtaking in itself, but no, he reminded himself, the task was not done yet, not nearly.
A chemical stink wafted into the room as the necromancer fetched his alchemical materials, mixing substances with care, one bottle unstoppered, then another, steam hissing and rising as the liquids mixed. Slowly, he used an ornately carved tube tipped with a snake fang to draw a dose and then inject his special mixture of preservatives and reagents into the veins of her wrists, first the left, then the right, rubbing them afterward to spread the chemicals through stilled veins. Yes, that was it. He smiled slightly, caressing her glossy crimson lip, then leaning close, he whispered the incantations against them, tracing patterns on her chest with his fingertips, each one intricate, flowing.
Finally, he kissed the cold dead lips, feeling the spark of power flow from his body to hers.
Her eyes snapped open, shocked, still anticipating the fall of the guillotine's blade. Delicate hands flexed weakly, moved, tried to push the warlock away from her, his mouth still lingering in the kiss despite her struggles. He drew back at length, a chuckle on his lips as he peered down at her. She tried to speak, looking at him in disbelief, the attempt resulting only in a choked gurgle that she quickly brought to silence. The cruel blade had cut her vocal cords clean through, her question and reproach silent in her wide eyes.
"It might be amusing," croaked the warlock, "to hear what you have to say."
His hand reached out, grasping her throat, and she let out a gasp of shock as she felt his power augmenting the stitching in her throat, the voice granted to her more supernatural than physical, but none the less still in that cold, rich tone she had spoken with in life.
"You horrible man! I do not even know you, sirrah, and you presume to touch me so!"
"I do indeed. It is, after all, so much more amusing when you can respond, is it not, lovely Marielle?"
The baroness seethed as the necromancer addressed her by her personal name, though pale and drained as her face already was, she could not look any sicker than she already did as she sat up with a shudder.
"Ugh! Have I indeed been sent to some hell, and you my personal devil?" she groaned.
"If it pleases you to believe so, m'lady. Would you stand?" the necromancer croaked tauntingly.
There was a languidness as she rose, a lethargy of the grave in her pale frame that even his arts did not amend, her eyes lidded and distant as she stood before him. When he reached out to lay his bony hands upon her, she backed away indignantly, painted lips parting to issue some stern rebuke, though it came silent from her as she scowled. Cornering her, he seized her by the thighs, stroking chilly but pliable flesh, her fine skin paler and greyer than in life, but still silky smooth under his groping palms.
"Beast, what gives you the right?"
"Well, I did make you as you are now. You're my doll, little baroness Marielle, my lovely little... fuck doll!"
Seizing her more roughly, he pushed her back onto the operating table before she could respond to that last vehement outburst, a wicked leer on his lips as he yanked open his robes and threw himself atop her with a low, desiring rumble. Eagerly, he shoved her skirts up and rammed into her, already hard from anticipation while he'd prepared her, so that his cock could slam right into her. Those nether lips and her silky inner walls were cool to the touch, no warmth of life granted by the animation she'd been given, but he drove fiercely into her, tossing his head back in a cry of delight.
"Hahaha, yes! Marielle, my doll!" he howled lustfully.
"Beast, cad, monster..." Marielle hissed, glaring at him with that ever so cold glare that had been so characteristic of her in life, but now she was biting her lower lip, trying to resist the groggy strange sensations of pain and lewder things as the man who'd brought her back from the grave raped her, cackling with glee as his cock throbbed and speared deep within her with each pump of his scrawny old body, his skin seeming feverishly hot against her when she felt his touch, burning almost. Then her protests were silenced as another fierce, burning kiss was forced on her cold, painted lips, her arms feebly trying to push him off as the feelings of total, utter violation filled her with despair. She had been threatened in her formative years with hells of fire, hells of blades, hells of plagues, but none like this. Was this, this her comeuppance, the guillotine not enough of an atonement?
Those thoughts were soon interrupted as the warlock grabbed her again and turned her over, rough now with insane passion where he had before been so meticulously careful in preparing and beautifying her. Thrown onto all fours, the baroness found herself being fucked like a dog, her assailant slamming into her chilly cunt again and again from behind, lewd, coarse moans of pleasure escaping him. Her hair fell across her face, waving with every thrust he gave her as it became a veil, not modest but with whorish allure despite the grimace on her beautiful features.
"Yes, oh yes!" he cried out, grabbing her by the hair, using it like reins as he slammed deep into her.
"Don't you dare." she hissed, knowing men well enough to know what was coming.
"Still not in the mood? Let's see to that..." the warlock grunted, grabbing a bottle he'd left out and dipping his index finger in before beginning to rub the stuff onto her clit, still thrusting inside her. The weird chemical burned on her clit and she shuddered, feeling something irresistable, unnatural yet unbearably pleasurable building up there. She clenched her teeth, she shook her head, but still he rubbed, he thrust, and it was no use.
"No, no, nooooo!" she screamed in defiance, that rich, haughty voice so expertly mended just so he could hear such screams.
"Yes, hahaha, yes, oh, oh FUCK!" the necromancer cried out as he felt Marielle's cunt shudder and flex against his invading cock, coaxing it unwillingly so that it shuddered, heaved, began to gush in an overwhelming orgasm, his seed surging and splashing into her cold womb as she collapsed beneath him, limp as the doll he'd dubbed her.
She was looking to the side, eyes peering somewhere off into the distance as he lay atop her, his breath hot on her pallid skin as he leaned close to lay a few light kisses on her jaw and ear before drawing back to clean himself up. He'd have to bind her just to be sure, of course... but he'd made sure that the revival he'd given her wouldn't give her enough strength to be too much of a handful. So much fun he'd have with her, he thought, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He was pleased with his handiwork, to be sure. Only one thing could be improved upon—if only she wasn't so cold.
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