Page 2 of La Petite Morte

I, the Necromancer, had awoken their slumber. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't here to disturb them, but this one called out to me.

He was sobbing.

I couldn’t help but go to him. My power didn't just involve controlling the dead. Sometimes, I was able to offer them peace. All they needed was for somebody to listen. This one in particular, was a young boy, not yet ten years old. He kept calling out for his momma, and he sounded scared.

I watched as he climbed out of the dirt, his eyes wide, and his lips trembling. He was a newer corpse, not yet decayed.

I slowly approached him, keeping him calm as the energy flowed from my fingertips onto him. He spoke of his stepfather and what had been done to him. He feared for his mother. He was afraid that man would kill her too.

I sat and listened until he had finished his sorrowful sorry. I could feel the intensity of his pain, the burning of his scars, and the turmoil in his soul. What I did was not easy. It was empathy at full volume, and I took it all in for this child, promising that I would save his mother.

Sometimes I would be able to, other times I would at least grant the peace that someone was trying. Guiding his spirit back into the grave, I tucked him back in and did a soft incantation to lull him back into peace.

I had acquired several souls on this road. Most had been with me for years. Captive to my needs and obsessions. The funny thing was, I needed them more than they needed them. A harem of sorts, meant to appease my every demand. They were meant to satisfy the succubus’s lust and in turn, my own perversions.

They’d all come to me by chance. A moment of grief that quickly turned to joy in my hands. Each with a fetish of pain and gore that satisfied my powers. I fed off them as the shadows fed off me.

While I sought my pleasure, my master made sure to keep me well protected from the monsters that wanted me dead.

I feared them the most. Because those monsters were human. And humans were known to destroy what was obscene to them, more due to ignorance turned to hate than anything else. They didn't understand my power and in turn they wanted to annihilate it. I couldn't blame them. If I could disseminate it, I would.

Occasionally, I'd come to the cemetery to practice my power. The Ringmaster disliked my roaming away from the cirque, but the dead called to me. Sometimes they were lonely, sometimes they had a message. I would sit all listening to their whispers. Every now and then I'd come across a spirit that had wretched in life and continued that way in death. Those I cast away, back to the hell they belonged.

The Ringmaster was not aware that this was where I gained my strength. With my hands buried in the soil of the recently dead. I emanated energy and the shimmer that vibrated through my hands refueled my power. There's a reason why witches use the elements. There's nothing like Mother Nature to fuel the soul.

There is a shared unspoken fear that dwelling on death somehow brings it closer. And that only made it all the more tempting. I wanted the world to know the magic of my power and I found that opportunity lying underneath the canvas of Cirque Diabolique.

Serge Bastien had been my mother’s obsession. I had been the product of it, and in that passion the power she transferred to me had become three times as powerful.

She feared for me, right up to the day she had died. And on her deathbed, she had made the Ringmaster swear to always protect me. In order to contain the magic, he gave me the freedom to create my own show. The freedom to share that unspoken fear with a crowd.

But what he and my mother never knew was that with this newfound power, I had grown cold. As cold as the dead, and in truth, I preferred to surround myself with them. I was what you might call anti-social. I preferred to keep to myself, for everything that came near me, I would destroy.

I didn't trust anyone, and after the violence I'd endured so long ago, I didn't mind being alone. The Ringmaster begged me to seek a friend, a lover, but my love only shone on the stage.

On nights when La Petite Morte's curtain rose, the crowds would gather to watch the necromancer satisfy their bloodlust.

Some even begged to die at my hands. They wanted to feel the power surge through their bodies as I returned them back from the dead. Some wanted me to defile their corpses, cumming deep inside of me as I fucked them back to life.

Are you sure you want to hear more?

I did tell you my perversions run deep.

See, because a corpse doesn't hurt you. It doesn't make you cry, or cause you pain, nor does it break your heart. My undead harem lives only for me, and with a flick of my finger they'll do whatever I want them to. It is an undying love that everyone seeks, yet never receives.

Don't look at me like that?

You should have more disgust for the living than for the dead.

This is why my Ringmaster keeps me hidden away beneath the safety of the spotlights. Up on that stage I can use my power as I see fit. I can feed off your energy and feed off the demon and get back at the witch who had destroyed my mother.

The witch believed she was stronger than all of us. Her ego was getting the best of her, and when she'd falter, I'd make sure I was there to watch her fall. I'd take great joy in helping her. But for now, I had to keep my father and myself protected, and my power kept the demon at bay.So don't you dare judge me, for you're the one who stumbled into my story. I never said it would be sweet and fairytale-like.

No.

My story is full of hunger, need, and just a little…blood.

Chapter2

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