The Necromancer by Kevin Page A

interests resemble his dead wife, whom, he had told her on several occasions, he had loved more intensely than any other woman he had ever known. She hated it when he told her that.
    It hurt. It hurt dreadfully, and she was quite sure he knew it hurt, and just how much it hurt. But she couldn’t leave him.
    She could never leave him. That would hurt more.
    “It pains me to see you this way,” she said. She raised her head and placed her hands on his bearded cheeks. She turned his face gently toward hers.
    “It is better for you to forget her. Forget what happened. You cannot resurrect her as I have seen you do with others. She is gone. I know I cannot replace her, but I am with you now—alive.” She paused for a moment, searching his eyes for recognition, but couldn’t determine what lurked beyond them.
    “I love you,” she said, wiping the tears away with her thumb.
    She kissed him, her open mouth inviting him in. He hesitated, then accepted the invitation. They kissed deeply, her warm tongue coaxing the longing from both of them.
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    Escape
    She took his hand and placed it on her breast. He cupped it fi rmly, delighting in its soft, smooth texture. It reminded him of Odara, and for a moment, in the dark, it was Odara. This is how he used to cup her breast. This is what it used to be like between them. But it wasn’t like that anymore. He fell to her breasts and sucked on her nipples. This wasn’t Odara, and as Jessica opened herself to him, he realized this woman could never fi ll the emptiness that continued to eat at his heart all these years like so many worms.
    But perhaps there was one who could.
    Susanna didn’t just merely resemble Odara physically.
    It wasn’t as superfi cial as that. Ambrose had sensed she was Odara’s spiritual equivalent as well. Perhaps Odara’s spirit now inhabited this woman. He had to fi nd out. He had to know if it was possible. He had to see if Odara’s spirit was alive in Susanna. He could never forgive himself if he didn’t at least make the effort.

    *****
The following morning, Ambrose rode to Salem Town
    to see Susanna. It was raining heavily, and the roads were treacherous with thick mud. Reverend Parris would be on his way to Boston to question Tituba further, and Ambrose knew what he would discover. His threats wouldn’t be so feared if Tituba knew she would be put to death anyway. He had to get Susanna out of prison before Parris returned, or forever face life without her.
    Ambrose was beginning to regret his role as the
    initiator of the witch-hunts. It would have been much more effi cient if he had simply killed Tituba and been fi nished with the matter. But that would have been too simple. There wouldn’t have been any sport in it and, more importantly, he wouldn’t have been able to punish these prudish, sanctimonious eaters of dung for their hypocrisy. No. That 83
    The Necromancer
    wouldn’t suffi ce in the least. There needed to be a huge letting of blood, and he wanted the satisfaction and credit for starting it. It was, after all, only just.
    The mixed blessings which accompanied the inevitable hysteria of Salem’s new awareness of diabolism were tainting his enjoyment. Proceedings had taken off slowly, but now that they were gaining some momentum and the executions would soon be under way there had been several developments, which Ambrose uncharacteristically did not foresee.
    Tituba had confessed as he had instructed her to, but she had not yet been executed. With Tituba alive, he was still at risk of being found out for his initial crime if not also arrested for practicing witchcraft. He had since cursed her, but she remained alive. For the fi rst time, his confi dence wavered. Had she access to magic as well?
    The witch-hunts were also responsible for Ambrose meeting Susanna, but she was imprisoned because of them, and he would probably have some diffi culty in setting her free.
    Then, he had himself to consider. He was a
    magician—a black