The Necromancer by Kevin

had made.
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    Ella turned around and faced him, holding the stem of the wine glass coyly with both hands. She walked toward him wearing a pleasant smile on her face.
    “Of course,” she said, handing him the glass. “I shall be but a moment.”
    She left the room, the train of her gown drifting quietly across the rug.
    Ambrose sipped his wine. Much to his surprise and delight, it was good. He took notice of a soft breeze whisking the curtains in and sucking them out of the open window at the far corner of the room. The wine was working on him already. It fl ushed his cheeks as it warmed its way down to his stomach. It was soothing. All the tension in his muscles evaporated with every exhalation. It was obvious he had come to the right place tonight.
    As he stared off into the distance enjoying the feeling of calm that came over him, Ella returned followed by no fewer than nine women, all of whom were very beautiful and scantily clad in lingerie.
    The listless trance which held Ambrose in its thrall broke and he sat up, suddenly attentive.
    “Choose as you wish,” Ella said. “I’m sure you will fi nd any of my ladies quite suitable for companionship.”
    He rose to his feet and approached the women,
    looking them over critically, but obviously very pleased. It was diffi cult to make a decision. They were all so enticing.
    There’s time enough to have them all, he thought, then decided to pick any one for the night and move on to the others afterward.
    He took one of them gently by the hand—a
    redhead—then froze when he looked at the doorway through 80
    Escape
    which they would pass. A large bald man stood there fi xing his clothes. Behind him was a full-breasted blonde in a clinging white nightgown. She leaned against the doorjamb, her bosom heaving. Her face was fl ushed and beaded with perspiration, her long hair disheveled and falling in her eyes.
    “That will be four pounds, Mr. Crowley,” Ella said.
    “And worth every bloody bit of it,” he replied, digging into his pants pocket. He extracted the money and handed it to Ella, then turned back to the blonde girl. “And this is for you, my dear,” he said, kissing her on the cheek and pressing a large coin into her hand, folding her fi ngers over it.
    The man left joyously, having obviously been well served and satisfi ed.
    Ambrose continued to stare at her. She was young and very beautiful. He wanted her.
    He unconsciously dropped the redhead’s hand and
    approached the blonde girl. He took her in his arms, kissed her, then picked her up and carried her upstairs to one of the bedrooms.
    Jessica had been all of fourteen back then, and though she was still young and beautiful, if not more so now, Ambrose seemed to have lost a good deal of the passion which overcame him that fi rst night he laid eyes on her. She, on the other hand, had fallen irrevocably in love with him and had since left the brothel, unable to tolerate so much as the slightest thought of being with another man.
    There was never a wedding. There had only been
    one woman to whom Ambrose could ever make such a commitment, and she had died in 1672. Jessica wished things were different. She wished she could be sure he loved her as much as she loved him, but she couldn’t tolerate not being 81
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    with him and was willing to stay with him under whatever conditions he demanded.
    It was agreed upon that Jessica could do whatever she wished with whomever she wished; Ambrose, the same.
    There would be no reprimands so long as she remained loyal to him in her heart. It was the most he could give any woman at the time—perhaps forever. She would live with him as his concubine, but outwardly they would proclaim themselves husband and wife.
    Now she feared she would lose him to this new
    interest of his. Of course, he had had other interests in the past: other lovers, other prostitutes, even other concubines with whom she was forced to live—but never did one of these