Stolas: A Dark Soul Series Novel

by Randi Cooley Wilson

  An oval glass desk and leather chair have been placed in front of the window, positioned to overlook the meditation gardens.

  “No knives, but there sure as hell is a whole lot of glass,” I say to myself.

  My attention drops to the circular side table next to the chair. It’s decorated with a silver tray holding two glasses, bottles of high-end water, and multiple pill and vitamin containers. A medication schedule outlining when to take the tablets has been handwritten on elegant stationery, along with a printed calendar of my sessions and treatments.

  I pick up one of the orange bottles and read the label. A prescription for anti-psychotic medication stares back at me. I shake the full container before returning it to its place.

  “Home sweet home.”

  Standing, I grab my bags and start to unpack. It takes me all of ten minutes to place the few possessions I was permitted to bring into the built-ins located in the walk-in closet. After I’m organized, I waste another forty minutes thoroughly enjoying the rain showerhead in my private bathroom, before getting out and wiping away the beads of water.

  Since I wasn’t allowed to bring my hair dryer, I squeeze my long, dark strands with a fluffy towel, hoping it will absorb most of the moisture. After a few attempts, I scowl at the clumps and waves forming, and give up, hanging the wet towel on the rack.

  Walking to the window, I study the grounds covered in a heavy layer of fresh snow. My stare follows the uphill lines of the breathtaking Swiss Alps. The snow-covered mountains are picturesque. If I wasn’t being confined, it would be like living in a postcard.

  Just when I start to relax, I’m hit with a sudden burst of cold air.

  I tense, as a familiar pair of lavish black leather dress shoes stops in front of me, setting off the goose bumps on my arms. I know the drill; I don’t look at him. Instead, I inhale deeply and my heart pounds wildly in my chest as I hover over an abyss of fear.

  “Not now, please,” I exhale, hoping the voices and visions will retreat.

  “I’ve found you,” he murmurs, leaning in to place his lips at my ear. “You can run, but you can’t hide, little one.”

  I continue to ignore him and focus on the expensive wing-tip shoes.

  Reaching out, he gently touches my hair, letting it spill through his fingers. “You were blonde a few months ago. No?” he asks in a deep masculine voice. “This color suits you. He will be pleased.” He moans harshly.

  Moistening my lips, I snap my head to the side, pulling my hair out of his hand.

  Strong, warm fingers grasp my chin, forcing me to remain still. “The time has come for you to abandon all hope.”

  I lose my breath at his familiar words. Even though it’s not the first time he’s visited, his warning causes my fear to rise to absurd levels. Attempting to control my panic, I squeeze my eyes closed.

  When they reopen, I look around frantically, but the demon is gone.

  Trying to calm my heart rate, I pull in deep breaths and talk myself down, reminding myself he wasn’t real—he was just a vision. One that keeps haunting me. When my nerves settle a bit, I turn back to the window, hoping the scenery will keep my anxiety levels even.

  I look around the grounds for anything suspicious, but see nothing out of the ordinary, until my drifting gaze stops on a dark form straddling one of the lounge chairs near the pond. The ache of fright is still present in my chest; I pull the sleeves down protectively on my sleeping thermal and curl my fingers around the material to help ground me.

  After a few moments of gawking at the figure outlined in shadows, I realize it’s a man.

  Seeing no swirling aura around him, I relax.

  Human.

  Not demon.

  I release a long, grateful breath and let go of my sleeves.

  I’m just about to step away from the window when he reaches into the pocket of his jacket. Transfixed, I watch as he pulls out something black. A crayon maybe? A few seconds later, he bends his tall frame forward, and mindlessly works his hand over a sketch pad, leaving traces of charcoal with each stroke. Drawn to his swift movements, I follow each shady line marring the pure white paper. I’m too far away to make out what he’s sketching, but the intensity with which he draws captivates me.

  The rising silver moon highlights his raven hair. It’s shaggy on top, and cropped around his neck. Stylish. Sexy even. I notice thick silver rings on each of his middle fingers.

  From this viewpoint, it’s hard to see his face, but I’m able to make out the sharp angles of his jawline.

  The stranger snaps his body back and studies the work on his paper, giving me a fuller view of his face. I lean forward to get a clearer look, hitting my forehead against the glass.

  “Crap!” I rub my forehead, not realizing how close I’d moved toward the window.

  It’s almost as if he’s luring me in.

  Needing a reprieve from his pull, I twist to grab a bottle of water, but something stops me. Every cell in my body awakens as my gaze slowly shifts back to the window and slams into an intense, emerald-green gaze. The color is so lush and vivid, my heart skips a beat.

  I become entranced, swept away with one look. No air moves in or out of my lungs as I hold my breath. A shiver runs bone deep, and my world tilts as everything but him fades.

  He looks at me not as though I’m crazy, like most people do, but as if he’s fascinated by me. Intrigued even.

  I’m hit with a sense of déjà vu when his verdant eyes widen in recognition. Overwhelmed, I grab both sides of the heavy silk drapes and yank them shut. The abrupt motion ceases my trance, allowing me to finally take in air.

  Struggling, I search my memories for a spark, trying to remember where I’ve seen him, but come up with nothing. I shiver at the echo of his stare, feeling his gaze still in my bones.

  I stumble over to the orange bottles on the side table. With a shaky hand, I pick up the medication and take the tablets and vitamins as prescribed by Dr. Foster. I convince myself my mind is playing tricks on me again.

  I crawl into bed, and it’s not long before the medication causes my lids to become heavy. I steel myself, ready for the nightmares I know will plague me throughout the night.

  Like every night for the past two years, just as I fall asleep, my dreams turn against me when a familiar deep voice whispers, “Lasciate ogne speranze.”

  “Abandon all hope,” I mutter, as I slip into the darkness of my mind.

  Stone

  I’ve visited a thousand places in the human world, and by far, Switzerland is my least favorite fucking spot. The quaint countryside is the total opposite of where I come from. The sheer take-your-breath-away magnitude of the country’s beauty is a far cry from the constant darkness I live in—filled with agony and infinite suffering.

  With tall, snow-capped mountains on one side, and pretty chalets and rambling vineyards on the other, I can see why the oracle chose this fable-like country for a safe haven. No dark soul would willingly step foot here, unless so directed by Lucifer himself.

  Even the people don’t seem real. They’re ridiculously friendly. I find it strangely endearing that the individuals in the villages know each other by name. These human behaviors are something I will not allow myself to entertain adopting.

  I growl and stretch my neck from side to side.

  If this oracle thinks charming, snow-covered villages are going to help her evade the prince of the Nine Circles, she has another think coming.

  I stare down at my drawing and sigh.

  “Lasciate ogne speranze,” I whisper to the eyes staring back at me, outlined in charcoal. They follow me like a shadow through the endlessness of my days.

  Over the course of countless nights, these same eyes have haunted my dreams, holding my every thought hostage. They call to me. And yet, I can’t figure out why they plague me as they do.

  My gaze lifts back to the window where the girl had been standing, frozen. She’d appeared panicky and broken—traits I normally find sexy in morta
ls. An uneasy shudder runs through me at the thought of her frightened expression. Her cobalt stare was mesmerizing, even when startled, though her dark hair hid one of her blue gems.

  Her skin is so pale, she reminds me of a snow queen. The concept makes me chuckle. She perfectly matches the fairytale surroundings currently suffocating the shit out of me.

  Her breathtaking beauty holds a strange familiarity. The idea causes a thorn to twist deep inside. I focus on her mystifying aura—clear. No color. Even when her lips parted in wanton need, her aura remained pure. It didn’t turn scarlet with passion as it should have.

  A black, soulless gaze turns in my direction from the chaise lounge to my left.

  I resist the urge to look at him.

  Instead, I continue to focus on the window in front of me, where the human girl appeared only moments ago. The idea of any other being seeing her, touching her, being near her, has me seeing red. Why? Humans are insignificant. What is it about her?

  I release the sense of peace her presence brought me, as my half-brother continues to peer at my profile, expressionless. He waits for me to speak first. It’s our way—to respect the hierarchy. I am the prince. He is not. We’ve been taught well.

  To obey. To lead. To hurt.

  “I assume you have a progress report for me?” I say, my tone cool.

  “Lore has made contact,” he replies in a clipped way.

  I look at him and search his face. He seems agitated this evening; his generally composed, well-kept mask and manner somehow off. It’s unusual for Lucifer’s favorite son to appear ruffled.

  Vassago and I have played this game many times over the centuries. I know there is something he’s keeping from me. Instead of meeting my stare, his focus remains fixed on my fingers, frowning in displeasure at the stains the charcoal has left.

  “Father wants her,” he says, as if I need reminding.

  “And we’ll return and present him with the oracle he so desperately seeks.”

  Silence stretches over us. Though we’re half-brothers, Vassago and I barely speak to each other. We share the same paternal DNA, but he was born to Lilith, a human woman our father made into his whore, after he stripped her of her humanity in retaliation for being thrown out of Heaven.

  My mother, Tazia, was an angel Lucifer enthralled as a means of enraging Heaven. Unlike my father’s conquests since, he was deeply in love with my mother. Even more shocking, she also loved him.

  It is rumored that Tazia’s beauty surpassed my father’s. Legend has it that her violet eyes mirrored his own—suggesting she was made in Lucifer’s image, as a trap. Her eyes are what intrigued him, placing him under her spell.

  If nothing else, my father adores himself—and anything made in his likeness.

  When it was discovered she was pregnant with his child, she was thrown in prison. Lucifer attempted to return to Eden and free her, but in his attempt, he learned his love had staged a rebellion against him, betraying him.

  As punishment for their love—and my creation—I was handed over to my father, while my mother was given a soul and sentenced to an endless eternity of being reborn as a human—the very thing my father detests.

  After her betrayal, my father turned his back on her forever. Instead, he became an evil tragedy, creating the inferno that is the Nine Circles of Hell. Punishing and torturing souls. Seeking his revenge.

  “The oracle is human, Stolas,” Vassago states, as if this is new information.

  “Your point?”

  “We can’t enthrall a mortal, oracle or otherwise. She has a pure soul, which means she must choose of her own free will. Without coercion or force. It has to be her choice.”

  “Then we’ll say please,” I reply, weary.

  He sneers. “You know nothing of mortals, or women, for that matter.”

  “Unlike you, human blood doesn’t flow through my veins.”

  Vassago watches me closely, ignoring my insult. “If you take her by force, she won’t help us, which is the whole point of her retrieval. If her gift of sight is to be useful to the dark souls, then she must share her visions willingly—with consent. Do you understand?”

  I consider his words carefully.

  Vassago is a Seeker—his demon gift. There isn’t a soul, human or otherwise, that he can’t find. Part of me has always wanted to ask if he knows where my mother is. The other part—the one that fears my father’s wrath—keeps me from inquiring. That and the knowledge that my brother is more like our father than I am. Vengeful. Cold. Vicious.

  Lucifer began taking us to his assemblies early on. My brother basked in it, while I questioned the reasons for his cruelty. Fear is what my father and Vassago thrive on.

  When Lucifer walks into a room, everyone turns and waits for him to speak. And when he speaks, everyone listens. When he moves, everyone parts. Just like they do for Vassago—not out of respect, but because they’re terrified.

  On the other hand, my brother must fight his human bloodline. This is a weakness in my father’s eyes. It’s why he tries harder to win my father’s adoration. They’re both ruthless and merciless, which is why it’s odd that Vassago is so concerned about the oracle’s free will.

  When it comes to me, everything is done and given to me out of obligation to my title. No one fears me. No one respects me. Therefore, I constantly must prove myself to my father and the Circles’ other kings. What they don’t know is that I am a force to be reckoned with, and when I rule the Circles, kings will bow to me out of respect, not fear.

  Resolved, I dip my chin. “What are you suggesting?”

  “You’ve been given thirty days. An impressive length of time, given our father’s impatience. In that time, you need to earn her trust. Make her believe she’s safe in your care. It’s the only way this will work.” He stands and walks away, done with our discussion.

  I scoff, looking at his back. “You think being nice will encourage the human oracle to simply agree to help Lucifer in his quest for underworld domination?”

  He stops walking. Without glancing at me he sighs and pushes out, “No. But a woman who’s fallen in love will risk it all to protect and save her love’s soul.”

  I tense. “You want me to bed her? Get her to love me? A human?” My jaw clenches.

  “Yes.”

  Rage flows through me at the idea. “Do you forget who I am, brother?”

  When Vassago turns around, his expression is less hard, but still masked. “How could I? You and father remind me every day. You are the pureblood, his heir. The prince.”

  “Then you know the dark soul inside me won’t allow me to do as you suggest.”

  “Even the demon of darkness was an angel of light at one time, Stolas.”

  THE RED SERPENT

  Hope

  I CAN FEEL THE LIBRARIAN’S stare burning a hole between my shoulder blades, as she waits for me to acknowledge her. I don’t. Instead, I continue to scan the aisle of leather-bound books lining the shelves, as small dust particles dance around me in the rays of warm sunlight beaming through the windowpanes.

  My fingers caress the fraying spines and I inhale the powerful smell of antique paper and centuries-old leather. It’s a heady combination that only the quiet sanctuary of a library can produce. The serenity calms my nerves and helps to keep the visions and imaginary voices at bay. In between the mahogany shelves, it is quiet, shadowed—like me.

  Rising on my tiptoes, I search for a book to get lost in. Once I find one that piques my interest, I take it down from the shelf and turn it over to read the synopsis on the back, but something in the empty space where the book was nestled draws my attention.

  Through the small opening, I see him. He’s sitting at a table on the other side of the library. His head is bent, eyes intently focused on a sketch he’s penciling and shading.

  The single-minded attention he gives to his drawing leads me to believe he isn’t aware that anyone else around him exists. Knowing he can’t see me hidden behind the bookshelf, I
step closer and curl my fingers on the ledge to pull myself up onto my tiptoes, staring.

  Today, I can see his features more clearly. His jean-covered legs are casually folded under the table, absentmindedly bouncing on the balls of his motorcycle boots, causing the silver chain dangling from his jeans to quietly rattle with each bobble.

  I watch as long hands, attached to lean, muscular, tattooed arms, methodically run the length of the sketch pad. When he twists his right arm, my attention is drawn to a design on the inside of his forearm. I angle my head to study it closer. It’s a crown, but it doesn’t look like regal artwork. It’s etched on him like a branding, as if he’s a trophy or prize.

  The stranger exhales, leans back, and rubs at his chest while he studies his work. The lead on his fingers blends in with the black tee hanging casually off his broad shoulders.

  I’m unsure of how long I stand here—like a crazy-ass stalker—before his hand stops moving, and he lifts his head and tilts his chin in my direction. Our eyes tangle and the intensity of his glare immobilizes me. I need to look away, but I can’t.

  Everything about him feels like a trap.

  The darkness surrounding him beckons me, yet the ominous air makes me want to turn and run. My eyelids close at the scent of death and the taste of evil. Oddly, it reminds me of cinnamon. I breathe in deeply with unabashed need, and both scents quickly fade, replaced with the rancid smell of sulfur and smoke.

  I snap my eyes open and lock my gaze back onto his.

  He arches an eyebrow in challenge, as if daring me to look away from him.

  “Did you hear me, Hope?” a female voice asks with a forced kindness.

  His eyes widen in shock, then narrow in confusion.

  Someone touches my arm and I glance at the nurse trying to get my attention, then back at the guy.

  He’s gone.

  Baffled by his abrupt disappearance, I step closer to the opening and scan the entire back portion of the library, but there’s no sign of him. It’s as if he vanished into thin air.