Stolas: A Dark Soul Series Novel

by Randi Cooley Wilson

  Avi excuses herself to get ready, and Malia guides me out of my room.

  We walk down the grand staircase and I catch a glimpse of Stone. He’s standing by the wall of windows in the sunken living room.

  Sensing my arrival, he turns, and I take in a sharp breath when my eyes lock on his grassy gaze. My heart drums frantically in my ears, and I almost stop in my tracks. He’s wearing a slim, black tuxedo that fits his body perfectly. He’s absolutely stunning.

  Watching Stone’s eyes devour every inch of my body has me nervous as I move down the staircase. There is a new darkness surrounding him, one that I’ve never seen before.

  I swallow as he steps toward the bottom stair and reaches out his hand.

  “Hope,” he says.

  “Hey,” I murmur.

  “My Lord,” he replies, correcting me.

  I roll my eyes and cock my head. “My Lord.”

  He smirks in victory.

  Malia bows to him, then turns to me. “Turn and lift your right foot, please.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t question her, she’s your attendant. Do as she commands,” Stone bites out.

  I narrow my eyes at his bossiness. After a defiant moment, I turn and lift my heel.

  “Excellent,” he replies. “Well done, Malia.”

  “Someone want to fill the human in?”

  “My Lord simply wanted to make sure you wear the mark of red on you,” she explains.

  “As I said before,” Stone steps closer to me, “it’s my color. And you’re under my protection.” He holds his hand out for me to take. When I do, he places mine on his arm and tilts his head to Malia. “I will escort Hope to dinner. You can leave,” he says, arrogantly.

  “Don’t speak to her that way,” I defend.

  Fear crawls into Malia’s eyes as she bows and quickly exits the room.

  I tug his arm, forcing him to look at me. “If you’re mad at me, don’t take it out on her.”

  “Don’t ever disrespect me in front of a servant again. In the Circles, I am in charge.”

  “And if I don’t agree?”

  “Your agreement is not required, wanted, or cared for,” he counters.

  Ouch. Tonight should be fun.

  Stone barked orders of how to act and what to say, for the entire limo ride to the Ninth Circle. At one point, I think even Virgil felt badly for me.

  I exhale slowly as the car drives up an expansive driveway, leading to a massive estate. I take in the extensive manicured grounds, shadowed in the blackness of night. If I didn’t know any better, I would assume a king or queen lived here, not the most feared demon in existence.

  We drive into a turnabout at the front, and two men in suits politely open our doors for us, helping us out. I try not to bristle at how civil it all is.

  Within seconds, Stone is by my side.

  The man who helped me out of the car bows to him. “Good evening, my Lord.”

  “I have her,” Stone all but growls.

  “Of course, my Lord.” He dips his head again, but as he straightens, he oddly sniffs the air in my direction. I take a step closer to Stone, half in confusion, half in fear. “And, my Lady,” he adds, when he’s done.

  Stone grabs my hand, pulling me forward as he leans into my ear. “Vampire. He smells your mortal blood and can taste the divine aroma you are giving off like a fucking beacon.”

  “I’m not doing it on purpose. Chill out,” I counter, sick of his bad mood.

  Stone guides me down an opulent black-marble hallway, and I keep my gaze forward. Every so often, I feel his attention on my face and I fight the urge to meet his eyes.

  “I’m surprised you’re bothering to escort me,” I say, nonchalantly.

  “Why is that?” he asks, irritation dripping from his voice.

  “You rudely disappeared after I told you about my vision, without a word,” I point out.

  “I had a business meeting.”

  “Why’d you bother even coming back then?”

  “You belong to me, Hope.”

  “You or the Circles?” I challenge.

  “Haven’t you heard? We’re one and the same.”

  I wrinkle my nose and stop walking. “I belong to no one, Stone. And the agreement we have is that you will return me to my old life after I help your father.”

  He doesn’t respond. Instead, he drags me along, forcing me to double my steps to keep up. My mind whirls at his sour attitude and I realize he’s blaming me for the vision. As if it’s my fault.

  We approach a set of black marble double doors. They are flanked by creatures made up entirely of black and red, stringy feathers. They have no face, and a slim female body with wings—but no feet. I tighten my grip on his arm, trying to remain calm.

  “You see them too, right?” I ask, thinking I’m hallucinating again.

  He frowns. “They are pestilence demons. You’ll see them around my father’s estate.”

  “Just making sure I’m not relapsing,” I exhale.

  His nostrils flare in anger. “You can’t relapse, if there is nothing wrong with you.”

  My heart speeds up as the pestilence demons open the doors at the same time, in one well-choreographed, fluid movement. Slowly, Stone guides us into the room.

  As we enter, all talking ceases, making me want to run in the other direction.

  Stone’s hand comes down on mine and he holds me firmly to his arm as he leans in. “The fight-or-flight instinct you feel is because you’re divine and you just walked in a room full of dark souls. Take a deep breath and push through it,” he explains quietly.

  “Thanks for the stellar advice, my Lord,” I throw out sarcastically.

  I look around and see Avi’s bright face smiling at me. Lev is next to her, along with Vassago and Lore. Scattered around them are five other men and six women. Or demons. It’s hard to tell.

  The air in the room shifts and everyone averts their eyes.

  A cold chill runs up my spine.

  Slowly, Stone turns us around and we come face-to-face with the man in my vision.

  Stone’s father.

  Lucifer.

  The Devil himself.

  MARK OF THE DAMNED

  Hope

  TO SAY THAT LUCIFER IS blindingly beautiful in person would be an understatement. His looks and presence are otherworldly, without a doubt. He has this light and glow about him that is not only ethereal, but it draws you in and makes you feel inferior.

  He smiles at me with the same deceit of a harlot, enticing me with his beauty and cunning presence; showing everyone what they want to see and hear, instead of the reality of what is truly before them.

  “My Lord,” Stone greets and kisses him on both cheeks. “Being cast out of Heaven agrees with you,” he charms, and I cringe inwardly at his fake behavior.

  “Well done, Stolas.” Lucifer’s violet eyes slide to mine. “Welcome home, Hope.”

  I bow my head slightly, remembering what Malia taught me. “My Lord.”

  He reaches for my hand and kisses it, his lips lingering over my skin. “Interesting . . .” An odd expression of surprise graces his face momentarily.

  Almost as quickly as I saw it, he draws a mask. His curious gaze remains on me as he tries to work through whatever is intriguing him.

  I try not to cower under the weight of his stare.

  Stone steps closer, as if magnetically pulled to me. His stance, protective.

  The way his father is looking at me puts me on edge and I begin to fidget.

  “Lilith,” his father motions to a beautiful, tall woman in the group.

  She’s dressed in a Greek goddess-style gown. It’s such a deep shade of purple, that when she moves, it looks almost black. The color matches her hair. Iron bracelets adorn both of her upper arms, and thick cuffs decorate her wrists—although, those look more like shackles than jewelry.

  Within seconds, she’s by his side. “My Lord,” she whispers seductively.

  “You shal
l sit by the oracle this evening, since you are familiar with human behaviors.”

  “Of course, my Lord.” Her deep-purple lips twist in ire at me.

  We all take a seat around a rectangular mahogany table placed in the middle of a wide-open space. Lucifer sits at the head, with Stone to his left, and Vassago to his right. Stone pulls out my chair and I take a seat next to him. Lilith sits to my left and Lore snarls across the table from me.

  My eyes glide to the three bodyguards standing behind Lucifer. I laugh internally at the dramatics of it all. Why the hell would Lucifer need bodyguards?

  Several females appear, one behind each chair. Their naked bodies are completely revealed, although their red, leather skin, covers everything like a bodysuit. They have two horns, one on either side of their head, appearing to be carved out of diamonds. Just like their diamond eyes.

  I try not to freak as they pour water and begin to serve first course. I’m guessing from the inky swirls surrounding their auras, they’re demons.

  “Vassago was unhelpful in providing a reason for your delayed return,” Lucifer states.

  “You gave us thirt—,” Vassago begins, but Lucifer puts his hand up in the air, silencing him.

  Lilith bristles next to me at her son’s dismissal, and tension descends on the table as everyone falls silent, averting their gazes.

  “My patience is wearing thin with your excuses, Vassago.”

  Vassago grinds his teeth, clearly pissed off. “Apologies, my Lord.”

  The Devil narrows his eyes at him. “Stolas can speak for himself.”

  I peer down the table, my mind spinning at the scene playing out in front of us.

  Stone locks gazes with Vassago across the table. The exchange feels like a sort of secret understanding between the two. I’ve never seen them do this before—support one another.

  “There was a complication with the divine. It’s been eradicated.” Stone doesn’t falter.

  Lucifer growls and the room trembles. The crystal water goblets shake and clink, and the gold utensils jump off the table as his fists hit the wood with a loud, angry pound.

  “The divine need to learn that respect is not simply given, it’s earned. They are envious creatures who hide behind their moral standards. Resentful of the pride and power we have. They’re hypocrites, holding us to ancient rules and peace treaties they themselves cheat around.”

  Lucifer sits back in his chair, his violet stare landing on me. “They are protecting you.”

  I remain silent as Malia instructed. Since I’m human, I’m not allowed to speak unless greeting someone, or if I’ve been granted permission from Stone to do so.

  “Your attendant has taught you well, oracle.” Lucifer smiles cruelly. “One day, Stolas will stand where I am, and on that day, you will thank me for making him the way he is.”

  I force a small smile and will my eyes not to narrow at his treatment of me.

  “We have much to do now that you have joined us,” he announces, like I’ve pushed the limits of his patience. “Your gifts will be put to use, starting tomorrow.”

  Stone clenches his jaw. “She isn’t ready.”

  A cunning smile crosses his father’s lips. “Then make her ready.”

  I bite my tongue to keep from lashing out at his ridiculous demands and vile behavior.

  Stone nods. “Of course, my Lord.”

  I twirl my knife in my hand, trying not to stab Stone for being a complete push-over.

  “What is it, Lilith? I sense your need to interject,” Lucifer states.

  “Thank you, my Lord. Hope is new to the Circles, and a mortal. Perhaps, my Lord would be kind enough to grant her a few days to become accustomed to our ways. As you can see, she’s shown great restraint and respect this evening, and has learned from Malia quickly. As a reward, would it not be kind of you to grant her some time?” she coos.

  Lucifer nods his head in thought. “It would be kind of me. Yes. I’ve decided she can have a week. I mean, for fuck’s sake creation happened in less time,” he snips.

  “How lovely of you, my Lord. Perhaps I could return the favor, later this evening.”

  Flames of desire shimmer in his eyes. “You may.”

  She dips her chin. “I look forward to it, my Lord.”

  Stone

  I step into my art studio and exhale for the first time in forty-eight hours. Being around Hope has become exhausting. She reads me too well. The way she watches me forces me to control every facial expression I make.

  I rub my hands over my face and try to wipe away the day’s events. Reaching between my shoulder blades, I tug my tee off in one motion, ball it up, and toss it into the corner as I approach the canvas.

  Hundreds of lit candles fill the room, their wax dripping and layering from constantly being used while I sketch. I take a seat on my stool and rub my palms over my soft, worn-out jeans. Some of the charcoal that permanently stains my fingers leaves streaks as I run.

  My mind drifts back to the way Hope tasted earlier.

  Even though she probably regrets kissing me, after my reaction to her vision, the few minutes we’d spent in her bed were the most amazing of my entire existence. Holding onto that thought, I lean forward and allow the black streaks to form on the canvas.

  When I sketch, I lose myself.

  Lose all sense of time and space.

  This is my place of peace and calm.

  Hours later, I lean back to inspect my work. Pleased, I lace my fingers and stretch my arms over my head. Rising to my feet, I walk over and grab a towel. I keep them stocked to use after I sketch to remove some of the charcoal residue from my hands before I shower.

  When I turn back around, Hope is standing in front of the canvas. Alarmed, I wonder how the fuck she got in here so quietly, and without me sensing her.

  I look around the room, but nothing seems off. “Don’t you knock?”

  She doesn’t look at me. “You once told me not to knock on the devil’s door and expect him to answer.”

  “And you told me I wasn’t the devil.”

  “Guess we both don’t listen,” she says with a sigh.

  My gaze roams up her bare legs to the bottom of the T-shirt she’s wearing. “Is that my shirt?”

  “Yup.” She continues to focus on the canvas.

  “This room is off-limits,” I grumble.

  A small smile appears on her lips. “You’ve said.”

  “Yet, here you are, standing in it. Uninvited. Wearing my shirt.” I take a step forward. “Which by the way, is also off-limits. As is my bedroom. My closet. And my studio.”

  Hope’s unamused visage swings to me, pinning me with an unreadable look. Her eyes drop to my bare chest, perusing it slowly, as if I’m a piece of art.

  Wherever her eyes land on my skin, I feel a caress. It makes me feel vulnerable.

  I take a few steps toward her, until we’re close enough to touch.

  “What about your heart?” she asks in a low voice.

  The air whooshes out of my lungs. “I don’t have one.”

  Her eyes hold mine in challenge as she lifts her hand and gently places her palm on my chest. She swallows and holds it there. “You lie.”

  “I’m the devil’s son. Of course I lie.” I smile down at her, feeling lighter.

  “I’m sorry my vision hurt you.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you all day.”

  “Tonight . . . your father . . .”

  I reach out and tilt her chin toward me. Her touch is creating a possessive need to be closer to her. “I don’t want to talk about my father, or the Circles, or any of this shit.”

  Hope zeros in on my lips. “One last question.” Her fingers trace the script on my chest. “Why would you tattoo the script from the gates onto yourself?”

  “It’s the mark of the damned. Everyone in the Circles is branded with it.”

  “I hate it. Hate that you wear it. That it marks you as damned and chains you h
ere.”

  My weight shifts as I lean to my right, reaching for a charcoal stick. I place it in her hand and step into her. “Then cross it out. Free me, Hope.”

  She swallows hard. With a gentle touch, she begins to smear the black over the tattoo. Hesitant at first. Then, each stroke becomes more forceful, fueled by her anger and frustration. Tears come to her eyes and she continues to color over the tattoo, hiding it from her sight.

  “I hate this. I just want to save you from this place. From him. From everything,” she cries out, peering up at me through her wet lashes. “Please, Stone, let me save you.”

  “When you’re marked as damned, there is no salvation.”

  COVETOUSNESS

  Stone

  I GRAB HER WRIST, AND my thumb brushes over her pulse. With my other hand, I take the charcoal and gently turn her wrist so her palm is facing upward. My fingertips glide over her forearm, giving her chills as I choose the perfect spot.

  Hope doesn’t stop me; she simply watches as I press the charcoal to the skin of her forearm and begin to sketch. When I’m done, I lift her arm, keeping my eyes on hers, as she takes in the heart I’ve drawn. I lean over, and press a light kiss over it. “Now you wear my heart on your sleeve.”

  She releases a quick breath at my words and I step closer.

  I touch the charcoal to her skin once again, and glide the stick up her arm, drawing in rune designs that match my own. When I reach the sleeve of the T-shirt, I tug it down until her shoulder is revealed, then I slip my fingers in the collar, pulling it down to expose her collarbone. Leaning over her, my lips meet the warm skin at the base of her neck, kissing the wildly beating pulse that thrums with her life force.

  She squeezes her eyes shut and I hear a rush of air hiss quietly through her teeth.

  I smile against her skin. As I continue to mark her pale skin with my runes, something heated stirs inside me.

  Lust.

  Longing.

  Hunger.

  A covetousness grows, pleading for me to mark every inch of her as mine. Hope’s hands slide around my waist, her palms flattening on my lower back as she pulls me flush with her body.

  I work the charcoal around the base of her throat, over her other shoulder, and down her arm, before grabbing her by the waist and lifting her up, placing her on my drafting table. She holds tightly to my arms and gasps.