Stolas: A Dark Soul Series Novel

by Randi Cooley Wilson

  “You’re interrupting.” My voice is so cold, it could cut through glass.

  “Am I?” Hope replies sarcastically, not caring I’m annoyed at her intrusion.

  “What do you want?”

  “I knocked. You didn’t answer,” she states.

  “Don’t knock on the devil’s door and expect him to answer.”

  “You aren’t the devil.”

  With a heavy sigh, I look up at her from my drawing. “I’m not your savior.”

  “Maybe . . .” she starts, walking over to me, until she’s an inch away.

  “Maybe what?” I like the way she studies my charcoal-covered fingers.

  “Maybe, I’m your savior. Your . . . knightress in shining armor.”

  An awkward silence falls across us as I stare at her mouth, which I need to stop doing. My blood stirs, remembering how soft and warm her lips are. “Are you saying you want to be the girl who turns my world from darkness to light?”

  I swear the blue in her eyes turns the exact color of Hell, flashing completely black before turning crimson with fury. “Did you ever think that maybe I like the darkness?”

  “After we left Hendrix, I threatened to turn souls dark if you lied or kept things from me. You shivered. Oracles don’t like the evil that hides in the shadows.”

  “I could have shivered because you were touching me without permission, not at your empty threat.” She looks around, taking everything in before her curious gaze shifts and floats over me.

  An easy grin crosses her pink lips as she lifts her shoulders in a shrug. “You know, we are living in the third millennium. Electricity and art pencils are readily available. You can even order them online from your phone and have them delivered. And yet, here you are. Locked away in a room lit by candles, fingers marred by charcoal. So, yeah, Stone, I do think you could use less dark in your world.”

  I grip the charcoal stick so hard my hand begins to hurt. Her presence is something I’m starting to enjoy, which makes me a masochist. She isn’t mine. Getting close to her, and allowing her to breach my walls, can’t happen.

  “Stone?” She tilts her head to the side, her long hair swirling across her shoulder.

  “I prefer candlelight when I sketch. It’s softer. Less harsh than lightbulbs.”

  “I thought artists preferred natural light?” she counters.

  “Painters. Photographers. Artists who create in color need the perfect combination of warmth and coolness when using tints because the light in your room can alter your perception of the hues you use while creating. Sketchers and sculptors prefer subtle light.”

  Hope grants me a small smile before taking a seat on the fur rug in front of the fire. “And the charcoal?”

  I flex my jaw, my teeth grinding together. “You’re suddenly interested in my art?”

  She pins me with an unreadable expression. “I’m interested in you.”

  Her admission baffles me, and also leaves me wanting to claim her in a raw, carnal way. I run my hand through my hair before holding out my hand to show her the black stick. “The charcoal I use comes from the Circles. It’s residue and ash, made from bones and other organic matter, heated in the Circle’s high temperatures. It hardens from the absence of air. Charcoal has a unique look and texture when it’s applied to paper. It also shades better than chalk, or lead pencil.”

  Hope’s eyebrows draw together and pull another string inside me. “Why do you only use charcoal from the Circles?”

  “It reminds me of who I am. Where I come from. And . . .”

  “And?” she prompts.

  I look around the room, trying not to sound too sappy. “And,” I sigh. “I like that I can create something beautiful with an object created out of the ugliness that is my world.”

  Hope lets out a small breath. Moving with purpose, she kneels on the floor directly in front of me, looking me in the eyes. “And the fire?” she whispers.

  My teeth clench. “It’s kind of my thing to be surrounded by flames and heat.”

  “Right.” She holds my gaze. “The whole I’m the Prince of the Nine Circles thing?”

  I nod slowly.

  She licks her lips and I hold back a growl of frustration at her alluring scent.

  “Why are you not afraid of me?” I inquire, and she ignores the question.

  “May I see your sketches?” she asks with a quiet voice.

  I hesitate. Showing her my drawing would be allowing her to see a piece of me, my soul. Inhaling through my nose, I brace for the impact her response will make me feel, before slowly presenting the book to her, granting her my consent.

  With a great deal of restraint, she takes the sketch book and begins to look through it. She stops on each drawing, studying it. On occasion, her fingers caress the lines I’ve created. Her expressions twist and morph into a patient understanding.

  “Why do you only draw pieces of something, and not the entire object or person?”

  “I focus on the one thing that is most telling about the entity. The one part I think holds the key to its existence. Everything is a part, or pieces, of the whole. Each fragment has a story to tell. A road map, if you will—the reason for the object’s existence.”

  The impact of my admission appears to hit Hope hard. Her gaze lifts and holds mine.

  “Like blood,” she mutters.

  “Blood?”

  “Blood is always telling. It holds the key to our very existence. Whether we live or die.”

  I ponder her words. “I suppose it’s a road map of a mortal’s DNA and life force.”

  Hope gently places my sketch pad down on the couch, treating it like something sacred. “Your art is beautiful. It’s full of tragedy and hopefulness. You soften the lines with shading, hiding them, so we can’t see the harsh strokes—all extensions of you. I see them.”

  I swallow the lump forming at her understanding of my drawings.

  With a deep inhale, she inches closer, causing me to spread my legs to make room for her. She wraps her fingers around both my wrists and leans in. “You don’t need to hide away like a ghost, letting the darkness shadow you.” Her thumbs brush in circles over my wildly beating pulse. “I’m still not sure I fully believe everything you’ve told me. But I’ve seen and heard enough to begin to understand. Hendrix helped that along.”

  “Why are you in my office, asking me these questions . . . studying my art?”

  “I need confirmation.”

  “Of what?”

  “If I call your name in the midnight hour, you’ll come to me.”

  “I’ll come to you.”

  “If I reach for you in my endless dreams, you’ll find me.”

  “I’ll find you.”

  “Then we need to share a link.”

  I search her eyes, knowing she’s right. “Agreed.”

  Hope releases one of my wrists and reaches into her back pocket. When her hand reappears, my ancient letter opener is in it. When she lifts the silver knife, I don’t blink. Or move. Or make a sound whatsoever. I simply hold her stare as she lifts her chin.

  With a quick flick, she slices the blade through the paper-thin skin of her wrist, and I watch as the ruby liquid seeps out. Oddly, she doesn’t flinch or wince at the open wound. She simply exhales, as if she’s relieved. Her body sags in a calm manner and her eyes become more alive. Understanding floats over me at her reaction.

  Without a word, she brings the blade to my wrist. Her eyes meet mine, seeking approval.

  I nod my consent because even though this is a dumb idea, we both need the protection.

  With a quick movement, she drags the knife across my wrist, pulling my attention back to her. Without hesitation, Hope lifts her open wound and lays it across mine.

  I steel myself because I know it will hurt. Grunting from the pain of her divine life force mixing with my immorality, I push off the desire to release my demon on her, to send her into the fire.

  Hope releases a whimper and squeezes her eyes closed, droppi
ng the blade as the plasma fights the exchange. “And if I’m scared?” she cries softly.

  Clenching my jaw, I grab her neck with my other hand and pull her to me, forehead to forehead. Looking her in the eyes, I stun her into submission at the deep connection.

  “If you’re scared, I’m on my way,” I whisper across her lips, wanting to take them.

  “Stolas?” she breaths my true name out, as I feel the pulse at her wrist begin to dull.

  I don’t move as I focus on the unsteady, slow beat.

  Hearing Hope say my demon name—the one my father gave to me—with such an intimate caress makes it difficult to breathe. Her lips tremble as we stay frozen in this moment.

  Within seconds, her emotions and thoughts swirl inside my head and I moan at the intrusion caused by the link. I place up a barrier, so that she can’t connect to my thoughts.

  I’ll need to teach her to mentally block me in the future.

  I release the harsh grip I have on her and pull back a bit. Liquid rolls over my warm skin, dripping onto the rug, staining it. I wait for her to say something—anything. She pales. I need to stop her bleeding before she passes out.

  “Are you okay?” I ask in the gentlest voice I can manage, which happens to sound gruff and irritated.

  “Um, yeah.” Her brows furrow together in confusion as she backs away.

  I grab her elbow and escort her into the bedroom, toward the attached bath.

  “What are you doing?” she questions as I turn her around.

  Gripping her hips, I lift and place her on the marble countertop, before rummaging through the cabinets and drawers to find a first aid kit. Once I see it, I pull it out and begin to clean up her cut and bandage it.

  Hope pulls her wrist away on a low growl. “I can do this myself, Stone.”

  “No.”

  At the harshness in my tone, she stops fighting. Once I get the blood wiped away, I grab the gauze and wrap her wrist, ignoring the tiny silver scars that already tarnish her skin, until the images of how they happened replay in her mind.

  “Don’t ever cut yourself again. I don’t give a fuck what the reason is. If you need relief, you come to me and we will find another way to channel your emotions. Got it?”

  Her lips part and she gasps. “H-how?”

  “You opened the link. I can hear and see your thoughts now.” I run my fingers over the bandage, and she remains quiet. “Why did you do this?”

  “I told you before, I have self-harm tendencies.” Her voice is barely audible.

  “Not the old wounds. I’m asking about what you just did. Linking us.”

  She bites her bottom lip. “When we got back, I had another vision. An intense one, clear in its message—you need my protection. And, deep down, I know I need yours.”

  A vision of the future—our future.

  She knows something, and that combined with Hendrix’s words, suddenly caused her to believe. Blood and water. I offer a small nod of understanding.

  I can’t change things now. So, I’ll have to protect us, both of us.

  I have this, I have her.

  I’ll do everything in my power to not let her down.

  Hope

  There is a war raging inside me. My brain is telling me what I just did was stupid, and potentially dangerous. But my heart knows better. Regardless of his birthrights or lineage, Stone has shown that he means me no harm. Hendrix was right. We need one another if we are to conquer whatever odd fates await us. There is a reason my path collided with his.

  I look down at my hands. They won’t stop shaking. The last time I put a blade to my wrist, it nearly didn’t end well. Stone’s eyes flash in comprehension as my breathing increases. I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to prevent the flood of emotions, memories, and visual images I’m currently showing him through our link. Damn. This is going to suck having him in my head all the time. There will be no privacy.

  “Hey,” he leans forward. “I’ll teach you how to block me.”

  My lips part in confusion. “Wait, why can’t I hear and see yours?”

  “I have a barrier up, preventing you from being inside my head.”

  “That seems . . . unfair.”

  “It’s for your own sanity. Believe me, you don’t want to see the things I have seen.”

  I try to be nonchalant about all of this, but the shudder that runs through me belies my actions and words. Whatever is happening to me right now, it’s beyond my control to stop.

  “It might help me to understand you better,” I encourage.

  “It won’t.”

  “I thought—”

  “You thought what?”

  “Earlier,” I pause. “I thought maybe we were getting closer. But forget it.”

  No matter what I claim, I’m still teetering between reality and fiction. My entire world keeps getting tossed upside down. And this man in front of me is the most recent reason.

  Stone hovers above me. He watches me with hate and fury, yet underneath all the bravado there is a softness and a need to protect. It’s this look that causes me to move forward, closer to him. Just as I am about to press my lips onto his, he speaks, ending my advances.

  “I brought you closer to me earlier to distract us both from the excruciating pain the blood exchange brought on, which, by the way, you opened without my consent.”

  Heat rises along my neck, drifting up to my cheeks as my neck snaps up and I meet his stare head on; it no longer intimidates me. Now, it feels as if it’s my lifeline.

  “Do all demons regard humans as lesser beings? Or is it just you, my Lord?”

  At the nasty way I used his title, Stone’s eyes light up and his lips pull into a smirk.

  “It’s a universal feeling. Dark souls don’t like divine oracles.”

  “Well, now you’re tethered to one.”

  “Apparently, I am.” His guarded expression cautions me to pull away and look down.

  When I do, I see his wrist is still bleeding, the wound open and irritated.

  “You’re still bleeding. Don’t your demonic powers heal you?”

  He bats my hand away when I try to reach for his injured wrist to inspect it closer.

  “Yes, normally. But not with divine blood running through my veins now.”

  I meet his gaze. “The link took away your power to heal?”

  He exhales slowly. “It’s temporary. Once I get back to the Circles, I’ll visit Akeldama. She’s a healer, specializing in . . . blood issues. She’ll take care of things and unblock it.”

  I throw him an annoyed glare. “Is that why you didn’t want to do this with me? You knew your powers would become hindered if we shared a link?”

  “No. And not all my gifts will be obstructed. Just a few of the demonic ones.”

  “You have non-demonic powers?” I ask in disbelief.

  Stone looks away, grinding his teeth. No doubt trying to control his annoyance at my constant probing into his life.

  While he’s distracted, I take advantage, grabbing his wrist and bringing it up to inspect it. “This is deeper than I meant to go. I’m sorry. It could get infected. Let me clean it up.”

  His nostrils flare as he continues not to meet my gaze. “You don—” he starts and I hold up a hand, stopping him from finishing his thought.

  “I did this to you. Let me fix it,” I counter.

  He looks away, giving me his nonverbal consent.

  Before he changes his mind, I rummage through the first aid kit and my heart sinks.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, sensing my defeat.

  “There isn’t any more gauze to wrap around the cut and stop it from bleeding,” I explain. “It’s too deep for a bandage to do any good,” I add, pulling out the antiseptic, followed by cotton balls.

  Stone releases a frustrated growl and stands up straight. “We’ll use this. Tear it into strips and tie them off,” he states, lifting his shirt.

  I’ve looked at Stone a hundred times now, but this . . . this feels
different. Before, it was always in the moment, without thought. But this time, as I watch him purposely remove an item of clothing, I’m suddenly very aware of him.

  All of him.

  His toned stomach reveals itself with each inch the material glides up and over. My eyes roam over the Italian script tattooed across his chest. I knew it was there from my vision, but seeing it in real time takes my breath away.

  A hiss releases from his teeth, pulling my focus back to his wound, as he tries to grip one side of the fabric with the hand that has the cut wrist, to rip it into strips.

  “Here, let me help you.” I grip the ragged material and find the scissors from the first aid kit. Cutting off several strips of cotton, I then douse a cotton ball with the antiseptic. “You’ll have to come closer.” My voice comes out in a hoarse whisper.

  Stone’s gaze covers me from the top of my head to my toes as he steps into my personal space. With one arm, he cages me between him and the mirror behind me, his hips spreading my legs wide as he settles between them.

  His body heat infiltrates my clothing and caresses my skin, causing my cheeks to burn with embarrassment as he presents me with his wrist. Swallowing, I gently take it in my hand. His scent assaults me, causing me to become light-headed.

  As carefully as I can, I press the cotton ball to the cut, dabbing. The sting triggers him to release a deep grunt, which echoes in my ear when he drops his forehead to my shoulder. The sound crawls across my skin, initiating a shiver to run through me and over my skin.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, and keep cleaning the wound.

  “It’s fine,” he whispers, as blood oozes out of the open gash. The torn skin is raw and angry.

  I stop my movements, annoyed with myself for hurting him like this.

  What was I thinking?

  “What?” Stone’s mouth is closer to my ear than expected—I startle and swallow.

  My heart slams into my chest, unnerved by his proximity. “Nothing.”

  “Your body language is saying, ‘Holy shit. this is deep, and not looking good.’”

  “Really?” I throw the cotton ball in the sink and grab a strip of his shirt. “You sure it’s not an I really hate you for kidnapping me and putting me in this situation posture?”