Ileus jerked his head back. "But how can I go back in time without a memory? I wasn't there."
"Then use my memories," said Adrianna.
"That is a dangerous mother," he replied. "You want me to extract the thread of that memory and use that to go back in time. That is dangerous. It can— it can— severely affect your mind."
Adrianna smiled and relaxed back on the chair. "I am not so weak son. Isidorus and your father are going to be there when you do this."
"You will be using my memories, Ileus," Dmitri snapped.
"No!" Adrianna countered. "Your brain is not so—."
"Shut up, wife!" said Dmitri. He looked at his son. "You are going to use my memories!"
"Dmitri, you are not—"
"The decision is made," said Dmitri, cutting her off strongly.
Adrianna pursed her lips and crossed her arms looking at her arrogant husband. That arrogant look on his face appeared very less, but when it did, it was as if no reasoning would work.
They had the rest of the lunch discussing Circe and others who were associated with her. Ileus had asked Haldir to call them for Adrianna to enter their cells. "Who are you planning on replacing the positions of Circe and Solon?" asked Ileus.
"We haven't found anything against Solon as yet, so while I am going to limit his powers, I will be watching him."
---
Iona was sitting in the prison her Master had made for her. She didn't know where the prison was because it was like an iron box that had thick walls and equally thick spells. She could hear the Diumbe on the outside, hissing and crawling on the walls, not trying to come to her, but hoping to kill her to eat her. In this box she was stripped of all the powers, all the dark forces. She was just a half witch-half werewolf… too powerless in front of him.
Her gaze traveled to the blood that had pooled on the floor. Drawing a line out of it, she wrote a name… Adrianna. She drew another line and wrote… Dmitri. A smile played on her lips, which soon turned into a manic laugh.
Weak and tired, Iona slumped on the floor in her blood and then drifted off into the nightmares that were a part of her life.
She found herself in the same place in her room. With her eyes she could see little Iona, who was only eight. She was drawing a house on paper and her nanny was helping her by dipping the brushes in water and colors to paint it. It was yet another day for Iona who was being taught by the royal artist of the palace to enhance her painting skills. Her mother found her exceptionally talented in it.
The summer night was still and the windows were open for cool air to come in. Suddenly the curtains of the windows rippled and an ice-cold breeze shivered little Iona. She looked at the wisps of smoke that came with the breeze. Her nanny jerked her head back at this sudden cold breeze. Alarmed, she got up to lock the window.
The smoke gently swirled around Iona. Entranced, she felt its icy cool tentacles sliding over her skin, soothing her mind. "Ionaaa…" the smoke whispered, luring her, calling her. "I can teach you…" it communicated. Much to little Iona's surprise, the smoke curled around her fingers grabbing them gently. As if now things were not in her control, the smoke took her hand towards the color palate, dabbed the brush in gray paint and then brought it back to the sheet she was painting upon. It brought her hand close to the sheet and all of a sudden sprayed the paint on it. Iona gasped. The face of her parents got covered in blotches of gray paint.
The grip of smoky wisps loosened. They traveled up her arm. "This is me over them…" it whispered.
Little Iona shuddered and looked at the faces of her parents.
That was the first time her Master had shown his presence.
The nanny came running to her. "Oh, my child," she said. "You are shivering so badly!" She held Iona's hands that were trembling.
The wisps of smoke retreated and Iona saw it leaving through the sides of the window. It promised, "I will come back, Iona…"
"Master…" Iona murmured, as she stood in the shadows and as her consciousness overshadowed her nightmares.
Her eyes fluttered open and she found herself on the floor. Her blood was caked and her skin had begun healing slowly… very slowly… Earlier when she was new to her punishments, her skin would heal up faster, but now… now it was as if the magic she possessed was slowly getting siphoned off by the dark forces who fed on her, whom she now craved for… she had far too gone.
Iona pulled herself up and crawled to sit against the wall. Her throat was parched and dry. She looked at the pitcher of water. She dragged herself to the pitcher and drank water out of it hungrily. She remembered how she was left hungry and the moment the dark forces covered her, she became lusty to eat raw flesh just like Diumbe. Iona sat against the wall and looked up at the ceiling. A laugh emitted from her throat. "How long, Master?" she asked. "How long?" She knew he would eventually come for her. The Diumbe were still lurking on the outside. If it was up to them, they would break the iron sheets of the cell and come inside to eat her. The Diumbe were nothing but kind of guards so that she didn't run away. "Where will I go, Master?" she murmured. "I only have you…" She closed her eyes and tears rolled down. Over the years, her golden eyes had become dull when she came in her human form.
Slowly, her human form was giving way to the dark forces and she knew that a day would come when in order to stay alive, she would have to give in to the darkness, and… that day was not very far…
Closing her eyes, she let out yet another laugh. She didn't know how long she sat there with blank thoughts, and when she slipped into her nightmares again.
She found herself standing in front of little Iona again. She was painting on canvas furtively. She had painted her room—the window with its curtains fluttering, with everything else in still art. She had even drawn the green trees that were peeking from her window. Her teacher had told her that this was a lovely painting. She remembered that he was aghast to see how she had blotched her paintings with gray paint. So this time, she ensured that all the windows were closed and she didn't do it. Little Iona thought that she was going mad. She would prove to them that she wasn't mad.
"Gloria!" She called her nanny. Gloria came running to her. "How's my painting?" she asked gleefully.
"Beautiful!" said Gloria as she clasped her hands, seeing so many vivid colors. "At nine years, you are quite an artist, princess," Gloria praised. "Now get dressed fast," she said. "Your teacher will arrive shortly."
Iona nodded vehemently with a smile. This time she wouldn't destroy these.
When the teacher came—