Stolas: A Dark Soul Series Novel

by Randi Cooley Wilson

  “Impossible,” I whisper.

  “Miss Annandale?” the voice repeats, with more urgency this time.

  “What?” I exhale a shaky breath.

  “Are you all right?”

  I turn and the nurse’s gaze falls to the book I’m clutching to my chest like some sort of shield or protective armor. This guy has awakened something unfamiliar inside me. And within the deepest parts of my soul, I know I need to protect myself from him.

  Her eyes stay focused on the novel, her features tightening, shoulders square.

  Confused at the change in her demeanor, I pull the classic book away from my body, only to see it isn’t the historical romance novel I’d removed from the shelf.

  The one in my hand is titled Sympathy for the Devil.

  “What the hell?” I bark out. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

  “Understand what?” The nurse uses a lulling tone.

  “Th—this isn’t the book I picked.” My eyes find their way back to her guarded stare. “I took down that one.” I point behind me, to the other book, sitting on the shelf in the exact spot where I’d originally found it.

  She offers me an uncomfortable smile as her hands slowly lift and wrap around the book in my arms. Taking it gently, she places it on the shelf behind my head. “It’s time for your meds, Miss Annandale. That’s all.” Her tone is meant to convey sympathy. “I understand you get confused quite frequently, but it’s nothing we can’t control.”

  She reaches into her front pocket and pushes forward a small, white paper cup filled with a few pills. “Do you need water?” she asks, pointing to the cup of medication.

  I shake my head no and tip the cup to my mouth, downing its contents.

  She pats my hand as I return the empty container. “You’ll feel back to your old self in a few minutes. There’s nothing to get wound up over, is there?” she coos in a hushed voice.

  As I focus on her nametag, my blood thrums in my temples, alerting me of a demon’s presence. Quickly, I turn away from Gwen, pushing away the dark, indefinable, murky shapes that track and suffocate me. Please, not now. She already thinks I’m insane.

  I inhale a deep breath.

  I can’t show Gwen any more signs of irrational behavior. If I do, I’m sure she’ll alert Dr. Foster and he’ll end my privileges to roam unsupervised around the facility.

  “Your eyes are killer,” a different voice breaks through the start of my panic attack.

  I turn back to the nurse, and a petite, curvy, African American girl is now standing next to Gwen. The girl’s black hair is wild and untamed. Her curls are standing at attention, giving the style a life of its own. Soft honey-eyes twinkle compassionately, as if they know a secret I’m not privy to. The new girl assesses me, then smiles widely.

  “I’ll help her, Gwennie,” the girl sing-songs.

  Gwen looks skeptical. “Are you sure?”

  The girl twirls like a ballerina, turning toward the woman. “Of course.” She stares her down before sighing dramatically. “I’ve taken my meds today. Don’t worry. I won’t kill her in front of the precious Dante poems.” She falls into a fit of giggles at her own words.

  Gwen straightens and her expression hardens. “I don’t think Mr. Alighieri would appreciate you spilling blood in the library, let alone in front of the Divine Comedy,” she scolds. “And while I appreciate your assurance that Miss Annandale will remain unharmed, in the event you change your mind, please remember the cameras are on, and watching.”

  The overly happy girl turns to face me as the nurse takes her leave. “She’s wrong.”

  I keep my expression neutral in response to her odd behavior. “How so?”

  “Dante would be tickled pink with the irony that I’m standing in front of his poems.” She winks and leans into my face, invading my personal space. “Hey, so is that your real eye color, or are they contacts? They’re so insanely dark and blue, it’s incredible.”

  Her thoughts are rambling and scattered, which is confusing, yet at the same time, comforting. “They’re real?” The statement flows out of me as more of a question.

  “Killer.” She holds out her hand. “Avi, daughter of Medusa. But don’t be afraid, the usage of my gifts has been temporarily banned while I’m up here. Meaning, I can’t turn you into stone or anything. I only can use them down there.” She points to the ground.

  “Down where?” I drop my eyes to the slate tiles on the floor.

  “You know,” she encourages, “the Circles?”

  I search for an exit door. Once I find one, I return my focus back to her outstretched hand. Am I imagining her? If so, that would mean I made up Nurse Gwen too, since they had a conversation. My eyes flicker back to where he was. So, if neither of them are real, it’s possible that he isn’t either. My stomach plummets at the thought. Maybe I’m having a hard time deciphering reality from fantasy again. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  A hand moves slowly back and forth in front of me, causing me to stare at it with a questioning irritation. It’s obvious Avi is my current reality as she demands my attention.

  I’m unsure whether I should give it to her—if it’s safe. If she’s safe.

  Then I remember, I’m also a guest here at Shadowbrook. Who am I to judge her odd behavior? If she thinks Medusa is her mom and she lives in Purgatory, then so be it. Besides, she doesn’t give off the dark swirls, which means she isn’t a demon.

  She’s just a very confused girl.

  Like you, I tell myself.

  I place my hand in Avi’s and offer her a weak smile as we shake. “I’m Hope.” I motion toward the puff of hair on her head. “I’m guessing you got your hair gene from your mom’s side—since she’s Medusa and all?” I hope that sounded kind.

  Avi laughs and it’s almost angelic. “You’d be correct.”

  “I see.” I exhale in skepticism.

  “Hope is an interesting name. How’d you get it?”

  I bristle at her question; talking about my parents makes me miss them. “My birth parents gave me up when I was born because I was sick, and the orphanage had trouble placing me, until my adoptive parents were contacted. Not able to have children of their own, and being doctors, they took me in. When I was no longer ill in the eyes of the state, they adopted me and named me Hope because I kept their hope for a family alive.”

  Avi’s dark, manicured brows pinch together. “You were ill?”

  I nod. “I was born with neonatal abstinence syndrome. I was a heroin addict and suffered from withdrawals for weeks after birth. Excessive crying, fevers, seizures, sleep problems, that kind of thing. Not necessarily the perfect baby every adoptive family dreams of welcoming into their home, you know?”

  She’s quiet, assessing me before continuing. “You seem okay now. So, Hope, why are you here with us crazy and damaged dark souls?” Her expression hardens at the question.

  “Maybe my soul is just as damaged and dark,” I counter.

  At my response, her eyes light up gleefully. “I want you to meet the others.”

  I frown at her sudden shift in mood as she links her arm through mine. For the entire walk, Avi skips next to me as she leads us out of the library and into a small outside courtyard. The cold, fresh air hits me in an instant and I shiver, wishing I’d grabbed a coat.

  We step toward Lore where she’s relaxing with two guys at a picnic table. The group seems to be unaffected by the crisp, wintry Swiss weather. I rub my arms and try to force warmth into my body. My new friend escorts us over to them. Upon our approach, all talking ceases, but their focus remains on one another.

  Avi gestures to them. “I’m guessing you already know Lore, since she’s your roomie.”

  I lift my chin to my tour guide. “Hey.”

  Lore glares at me in silent hatred before sliding her gaze to a guy across from her.

  They are playing chess, and she takes his king in four moves. Impressive.

  “You’ll have to forgive Lore’s lack of social
skills. She’s the daughter of Tlaltecuhtli, so she has this whole I crave blood but I’m not a vampire thing going on. The control she has to exhibit in order not to kill you makes her irritable,” Avi explains with a sly grin.

  “You make me irritable,” Lore snips in a slightly accented voice.

  I push away the desire to hysterically laugh at the insanity of every one of Avi’s declarations. “If you’re not a vampire, then what are you?” I try to sound interested.

  Lore continues to ignore me, focusing on the good-looking guy across from her.

  “She’s a flesh-eating goddess,” Avi replies, wiggling her eyebrows. “And across from Lore is Vassago. We like to call him Vas, mainly because he hates it, which is fun.”

  Vassago lifts a dark gaze to me and all my warning bells go off. Inside, sheer terror pounds through me, but with a control I didn’t know I had, my exterior remains unaffected by him or his lack of kindness.

  Menacing is the only way to describe Vassago’s looks. In contradiction, he’s wearing a crisp, white button-down shirt. The top button is open, revealing smooth, tan skin.

  Attempting to look relaxed, he’s rolled his sleeves up to his elbows; however, the fullness of his muscular arms and the multiple scars and tattoos that run along his skin give the impression this guy’s anything but easygoing. Vassago takes a moment to examine me, a cocky expression plastered on his face. He’s so raw, handsome, and terrifying.

  The relaxed elements of his shirt are a stark contrast to his black, tailored dress pants and polished black wing-tip dress shoes. The whole outfit reeks of power and money. It’s out of place here. Even the doctors aren’t dressed as nicely as he is.

  Vassago’s entire presence is meant to intimidate, from his tightly cropped dark hair to his perfectly angled, stubbled jawline. He emanates a dark power and a peculiar dominance, eerily mixed with death. Looking directly into his gaze, I see hatred.

  “Don’t call me anything other than Vassago, mortal,” he growls.

  “Mortal?” I whisper under my breath. The odd nickname takes me aback.

  “Ignore him,” Avi whispers in my ear. “He has daddy issues.”

  She pulls at my arm, leading me to the other guy.

  He looks less scary, but more calculated, even with his frayed jeans, white T-shirt and aviators. He too has multiple scars and tattoos adorning his arms and neck, but his caramel-highlighted hair is short on the sides, long and messy on the top. Evil surfer dude stares.

  “Hope, this is Leviathan. Lev, this is Hope,” Avi introduces us.

  Lev pulls off his sunglasses, revealing his cold, steel-gray gaze. He smirks wickedly around a lit cigarette and says my name snidely. “Hope.” It’s not a greeting—it’s a taunt.

  Annoyed with how rude everyone is being, I gesture toward his cigarette with my chin. My jaw twitches. “Let me guess, you’re here to conquer addiction?” I retort unkindly, as an ash falls into the light breeze like a flake of dirty snow.

  This group has a certain kind of malevolent coarseness. It’s hard to explain, but I see the spitefulness behind their eyes as they look at me and study my reactions—like I’m a sideshow here only for their personal amusement.

  The realization makes me feel isolated and alone. I’m no stranger to assholes, but this group is different. I get the feeling their favorite pastime is torturing others.

  “Nope. I suffer from a fear of water monsters, and envy issues,” Lev counters.

  His answer causes me to pause and stare at him, my mouth gaping. Is he kidding?

  “Water monsters sound terrifying,” I quip. “Good luck conquering that shit.” By the look on his face, he isn’t joking, which means I’m now the asshole.

  As soon as the words come out, I wish I can take them back.

  Everyone at Shadowbrook has secrets and a certain level of darkness that haunts their mind. Who am I to judge or mock why they are here? Or what they fight off in the dark.

  “Why are you here, Hope?” Lev asks with a pop of his lips.

  I hold his eye contact because his question feels like a test. One that, strangely, I don’t want to fail. As odd as it sounds, I have this deep-seated desire to be accepted.

  Lev arches a brow, exhaling smoke through his nose as he studies me.

  I lift my chin. “Demons. I see and hear them.”

  A small smile plays at Lev’s lips as he releases a cloud of nicotine from his mouth. “Don’t we all, la mia bella veggente maledetto?” He tilts his head, watching my reaction.

  I keep my face expressionless. “I don’t speak—”

  “Italian?” Lev supplies. “I know.” His gaze focuses on something over my shoulder.

  “But you will learn. For him, you will learn,” Vassago interjects cryptically.

  Chills caress my skin, as goose bumps form across the paleness. I look over my shoulder, but there is nothing in the courtyard. A light, tepid breeze brushes over me, pushing my hair back. I close my eyes, basking in the warmth. It’s an odd sensation, feeling chilled and balmy simultaneously. Like being scared but knowing you’re safe.

  I turn back to the group, who are now watching me with a strange curiosity. Their attention is making me uncomfortable, and I need to separate myself from their presence.

  Clearing my throat, I shift on my feet and point to the direction of the building.

  “I have a session, so . . .” my excuse trails off.

  “Okay,” Avi whispers.

  “It was interesting to meet you all,” I add, walking toward the doors.

  Vassago’s deep, cruel tone stops me, initiating a warning shiver down my spine.

  “Until we meet again.”

  Stone

  From my VIP table, I can see the bartenders are already slammed with drink orders. The nightclub is near capacity, and it’s not even eleven o’clock yet. An excellent sign of things to come this evening. The crush of inebriated and high patrons on the dance floor is a welcome sight. This—this is my kingdom. Filled with sin and lust. My type of evil.

  I take a sip of my Ley .925 Ultra Premium Añejo tequila and glance at the world around me. Lust, greed, and iniquity saturate the air. I inhale deeply, allowing the immorality of the humans to fill my lungs and flow through my veins, darkening my soul—empowering it. The longer I’m away from the Circles, the more necessary it becomes to feed off human depravity. It’s a short-lived high, but one that fills my need for malevolence.

  “Baby,” a female voice slurs, requesting my attention.

  I turn to the voluptuous blonde and smile down at her. Leaning in, I wipe away the white powder that lingers on her nose with my thumb, before placing it in my mouth and sucking. The cocaine doesn’t affect me; it’s more for show. To keep up appearances.

  She crooks her finger, trying to get me to move my lips closer to hers. I shake my head and lean back, continuing to sip my twelve-thousand-dollar-a-shot tequila.

  Sensing his presence, I dip by chin, granting him my consent to speak.

  “Tell your whore to find another dick to suck.” Vassago leers at me from behind the woman, his voice dripping with venom.

  His sudden appearance startles my company, but simply aggravates me.

  The intoxicated woman pouts at his words. “Do you need something?”

  By way of answer, he pulls her to her feet by her elbow and pushes her toward some drunken guy on the dance floor, who gladly catches her, and off they go.

  “All work and no play makes Vassago an angry demon,” I provoke.

  The scowl on his face is priceless, as he slinks into the booth and takes a seat next to me, cocking his head sideways. “You are supposed to have contacted the oracle. Yet here you are, sitting in a club, drinking expensive liquor. Do you have a death wish?”

  I coil my fist, but my face is composed and icy. “I live in the deepest pit of Hell, and am the son of Lucifer . . . of course I have a death wish,” I declare with dramatics. “Besides, when have I ever done what I was supposed to do? That’s your
job, as father’s lap dog.”

  “Need I remind you that time is of the essence?”

  I laugh, but with no humor. “Time is a mortal interest. It’s of no concern to me.”

  “Your obliviousness to your future, should you fail, is remarkable.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  My lips curl with an arrogant twist. “You should try not speaking, Vassago. It truly makes you less charming. Not that charismatic is a word I would use to describe you often.”

  He ignores my suggestion. “You’re acting like an unruly child, instead of a prince.”

  “And you’re a Seeker. If you want the oracle so badly, go and get her,” I counter.

  “I can’t.”

  “No?” I snap back. “Why not?”

  “Father chose you to bring her in!”

  I toss back the remaining shot of lavish tequila in one swallow and slam down the glass.

  “You’re damn right he did. So back the fuck off, Seeker. You’ve done your part. You found her. Now, we do this my way.” I throw him a threatening glare. “I’ll decide when and where contact is made. Until then, the oracle is of no concern to you.”

  Vassago’s nostrils flare. “With every breath she takes, she is a threat to our interests.”

  I turn to see the cold calculation in his eyes. “Meaning?”

  “She senses us. Demons. This mortal can pick up on and read our dark souls.”

  At his words, I still. “Explain.”

  “At my directive, Avi brought the oracle to us.” His eyes find mine. “She came of her own free will, and when queried by Leviathan, she stated she sees and hears demons.”

  I sit back and assess him. “She’s hiding in a facility that treats the mentally unhealthy. Is it possible she said this to keep up appearances? An explanation for her ongoing treatment.”

  “Do I look stupid?”

  “Is that question rhetorical?”

  He leans forward, clenching his teeth. “She felt your approach in the courtyard. Your essence brushed her soul. I watched as she looked over her shoulder for the cause of the shift.”

  I study his face for an indication of deceit. There is none.