Darcy read and re read the spell, making sure she had each aspect down to a science. She paced the stone floors in the still room, checking the beakers which were brewing over small Bunsen burners. Her still room looked like a laboratory, not an herb room of centuries gone by. Her magik had grown in proportion to her use of more modern techniques. Gone were the days of stirring a black cauldron. Today she had glass tubing and Petrie dishes to create delicate balances for potions.<br/><br/>The fire had died down as had the stench of burning hair and flesh. She took a small black iron shovel to the ashes. Reciting the first important ingredients by memory, she said<br/><br/>"Ashes from one who is wily and strong. Ashes from one who is selfish and cunning. Ashes from one who is twisted and has no conscience." Darcy smiled wickedly thinking of the three who had contributed to the success of the spell as she scooped three shovels of ashes, moving aside remnants of smoking bone. The ashes she deposited in mold that was waiting on the counter.<br/><br/>The  mold was spiral in shape, with grooves like a great Conch shell. Darcy carefully filtered the ashes along the groove, filling it to near the top.<br/><br/>"Now, I need the blood of power and hair of fire." Darcy said, looking up and toward the open archway.<br/><br/>She covered the mold with a gauzy black cloth and dusted her hands off over the contrivance. Taking a vial and a needle from the cabinet over head and a pair of great silver scissors, Darcy headed to the dungeon to make use of what her cousin would never give to her, voluntarily.<br/><br/>Darcy liked the leaping flames from the torches along the stone corridors and used them instead of installing electric lights. Old castles were costly to modernize and Darcy didn't plan on living here once the domination of all good and evil was at her fingertips. Her footsteps rang on the stone floors as she rapidly approached the sturdy oak door. Damp decay filled the air as she descended into the bowels of the earth but to the blonde woman, it was the aroma of her greatest achievement like the scent of new money.<br/><br/>A sinister laugh erupted from her as she pushed open the door. Isolde was out cold, her long red hair flung over the side of the plank she lay on. If Darcy had cared for any one but herself, she would have felt pity at the grueling position in which Isolde lay,, with her arms handcuffed behind her back. Isolde didn't feel the agony of her shoulder joints, and never felt the sting of the needle that pierced her vein or heard the snip snap of the scissors as Darcy relieved her of a long hank of hair.