Free The Necromancer by Kevin Page B

thud, his burning corpse charring to black ash.
    76

CHAPTER SEVEN
Escape
    “Odara!” Ambrose screamed as he woke up and
    bolted to a sitting position, sweat pouring out
    of him.
    It had been twenty years since Odara died at the stake and he had fl ed Scotland; twenty years since he had used the name Fergus Crawford; twenty years since he had killed Marshall and cursed the people of Haddington. The executioner and his two attendants were dead, killed in a similar fashion to that of Marshall. The townspeople were stricken with disease and misfortune. Ambrose had shown them as much mercy as they had shown to those they convicted and executed for witchcraft, but only to a degree commensurate with the hatred each harbored in their hearts. He felt it appropriate to merely redirect their own malevolence back at them and allow it to consume them.
    Such was the scourge of Haddington during the fall of 1672.
    “Ambrose,” Jessica said, sitting up and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
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    The Necromancer
    He nodded.
    “Dreaming of your sister?”
    He nodded again.
    “You have not dreamt of her in a long time. Has she been heavy on your mind as of late?”
    “Yes.” A tear streamed down his face. “Some days ago, I met a young maiden who was the very image of her. Since then, I have not been without her image penetrating my every thought.”
    Jessica kissed his shoulder and pressed her cheek against it.
    Ambrose had met her three years ago in a brothel in the East End section of London, where she worked as a prostitute. He had taken to fi nding solace in the arms of these knowledgeable women. It was all he could do to comfort himself during those years of prolonged grieving and lonely nights. He had been a reverend for several years then and could quite comfortably afford the hire of a mistress or two for the night.
    By then, he had completely succumbed to his anger and had become a loyal Brother of Darkness. There was no sin to which he was not privy. No pleasure beyond his scope of experience. No pain he did not take ecstasy in. He savored his suffering, as he did all sensation, his loss of Odara the sweetest of his miseries. She had taught him love. Her death had taught him mourning and hatred, anger and vengeance. He turned his bereavement into an indulgence which opened the gateway to sin and further depravities. He mourned her loss, and he yearned for the days when they were together, but until they encountered each other again in the Hereafter, he would sin and revel in all the earthy pleasures of the fl esh.
    Then he met Jessica.
    78
    Escape
    It was a cool and foggy evening early in June.
    Ambrose entered a brothel he hadn’t frequented before, having heard of the exquisite breed of women employed there. He had grown bored with the prostitutes of his usual haunts and desired a change.
    He rapped on the door and was greeted by a buxom beauty clad in a long red and black nightgown.
    “Good evening, sir,” the woman said. “I am Ella. May I take your cape?”
    Ambrose removed it and handed it to the woman, who promptly hung it up.
    The interior was much as he had expected: gaudy and red.
    “Please have a seat,” she said, directing him to a plush maroon sofa. “Would you care for a drink of wine? We have a fi ne sixty-seven claret.”
    “That will do nicely.”
    Ella walked over to a small table standing to the right of the fi replace. On it stood a large bottle of dark red wine and several wine glasses. She picked one up and wiped it thoroughly with a white handkerchief, then placed it back on the table and fi lled it.
    “What manner of companion do you desire for this evening, sir? Have you any preference?” she asked, setting the wine bottle down.
    “I think it best that I see for myself which lady will suit my taste for the night.”
    Ambrose’s lips creased-up on the sides of his mouth.
    He nodded slightly. His choice of words begot more than one meaning, and he enjoyed the quip he