Stolas: A Dark Soul Series Novel

by Randi Cooley Wilson

  “Easy, Miss Annandale,” a woman’s voice coos in a hushed voice.

  “Who are you?” I ask as she comes into focus.

  “My name is Gwen. I’m your nurse here at Shadowbrook.”

  “Nurse?” My mind is foggy.

  “I’m going to remove the restraints so that you can sit up. Try and relax, okay?”

  I nod and watch her unstrap me from the bed. The cot underneath me creaks and moans as she helps me sit up. Nausea floats through my stomach, and the room spins, causing me to take in a sharp breath. Her warm hand rubs my back, while I regain my composure.

  She steps away, only to return with a warm blanket, which she wraps around my shoulders before pouring some ice chips into a paper cup and handing it to me.

  “The chips are better than water for the nausea. You were heavily sedated, and may feel a bit out of sorts for a while,” she explains with a tight smile.

  “Do I know you?” I ask, because I swear she looks familiar.

  “I was the nurse in the library.”

  “Library?” I search my mind, but come up empty.

  Raising the paper cup to my lips, I suck on a cube and notice a bandage around my wrist.

  Gwen takes in my line of sight. “You were extremely upset that we didn’t have a particular poem you wanted to read. After a rather large tantrum, you grabbed a letter opener from the main desk and tried to commit suicide by slitting your wrist.”

  I frown.

  “What poem?” I ask, because something about her explanation sits wrong with me.

  “The Divine Comedy. You wanted to read Dante’s Inferno.”

  “The fourteenth century poem about the Nine Circles of Hell?”

  She sighs. “I’m afraid the answer to that is yes.”

  An abnormally tall man with blond hair and kind eyes walks in and places a pile of clothing next to me, offering me a warm smile before he leaves.

  “That is your other nurse, Hendrix. Your parents are in Dr. Foster’s office now. Let’s get you dressed and Hendrix will wheel you over to see them. They’ve been so worried about you.”

  “My parents?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re . . . here?”

  “Yes. They have been here for a while now. I understand you get confused quite frequently, but it’s nothing we can’t control. You’ll feel back to your old self in no time,” she encourages.

  Her words feel familiar as she undresses me and helps me slip into sweatpants, socks, and a sweatshirt.

  “No shoes?” I ask.

  “When you are a self-harm patient, you aren’t allowed to have laces, dear.”

  I nod and put another ice chip in my mouth, grateful for the liquid.

  Hendrix returns and assists me into the wheelchair, before pushing me toward Dr. Foster’s office. I look around at the spa-like facility. It seems familiar, but the faces don’t.

  Hendrix leans over the back of the chair, his mouth at my ear. “Do not judge those you do not wish to understand.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I saw the way you were looking at the other guests of the facility. Everyone is here for a reason, Hope. We all have a little darkness in us, now don’t we?”

  I fidget with the sleeves on my sweatshirt, his words stirring something in the recesses of my mind.

  When we arrive at Dr. Foster’s office door, Hendrix knocks once, and when invited in, he opens the door and rolls me into the burgundy room. My parents are sitting on the couch, across from Dr. Foster’s mahogany desk. They’re speaking in hushed tones.

  “Miss Annandale, welcome back to the land of the living.” Dr. Foster smiles and greets.

  When my mother pulls me into her arms, I inhale her scent and try not to cry. For some reason, I have a terrible feeling inside, like I never thought I would see her again.

  For the past hour and a half, we’ve been listening to Dr. Foster drone on and on about my condition and his plans to treat me. Both my parents are listening intently, taking in his words.

  I’m zoning in and out.

  Listening to pieces as I stare out the window at a tree; it keeps pulling my attention.

  Suddenly feeling warm, I roll up my sleeves. When I do, I notice a sketch on the skin of my left forearm. It’s a heart drawn in charcoal. My brows pinch together, curious as to how it got there.

  I don’t draw. Or do I?

  The talking in the room has stopped and everyone’s focus has shifted to me.

  “Hope,” my mother prompts, “did you hear what Dr. Foster suggested?”

  I shake my head.

  “Cornelius, perhaps it’s best if we let our daughter get some rest,” my father suggests.

  “Of course, Mr. Annandale. Let me call in Hope’s secondary psychiatrist. It might be helpful to have her assist Miss Annandale while she settles back into her private suite. Answer some questions. Gauge her current stability. Help with her meditation, and medication timelines.”

  “Private suite?” I parrot. “I can’t go home with you?”

  My parents exchange a glance, and mom talks for the both of them. “Honey, you just tried to commit suicide. You were in a deep coma for almost a week. We think it’s best if you continue to stay here and work on getting better. Daddy and I will visit you as often as we can. We’ve bought a flat here in Switzerland and when we fly in, we’ll stay there, so we’re close by. Okay?”

  Exhaustion takes over and I nod my agreement.

  A knock at the door has us all shifting our focuses to the woman who walks in.

  I stare at her, mesmerized by her kind, violet eyes.

  “Tazia, this is Mr. and Mrs. Annandale, and their daughter, Hope.”

  The woman grins warmly, and I can’t help but think I’ve seen that very same grin before. I can’t for the life of me remember from where though.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet all of you. I look forward to watching over you, Hope.”

  At her words, I feel at ease. Oddly, the despair from earlier is gone, replaced with a feeling of hope. I toy with the bandage on my wrist as Tazia speaks to my parents.

  When I pull it up a tiny amount, I notice there is writing on the inside:

  Hope lies in eternal darkness.

  WHILE THIS STORY IS A work of fiction, designed to be read for entertainment purposes only, I would like it to be clear that I am not downplaying the seriousness of mental health conditions, or those who live with any form of mental illness or depression. Mental illness, suicide, and cutting are very real and serious conditions which need professional medical treatment. Please find strength in knowing you’re worth it. Choose life. It’s hard. It’s painful. It’s often lonely and scary. Darkness always is.

  If you think you or a loved one are living with a mental health condition and you need more information about mental illness or suicide, you can reach out to:

  The National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) hotline: 800–950-NAMI (6264)

  The National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 800–273–8255

  Author Randi Cooley Wilson

  VASSAGO

  A DARK SOUL SERIES NOVEL

  PART II

  A Seeker with one desire.

  A goddess who safeguards an ancient curse.

  Sometimes even love cannot save a dark soul.

  Vassago is a Seeker who is possessed by his dark soul, making him a danger to everyone around him—except Lore. Lore is a beautiful goddess who wards an ancient dark curse. She has loved Vassago for centuries, but he has always chosen his duty to the Circles above all else, even her.

  Hope Annandale barely manages to survive the Circles, only to end up back at Shadowbrook alone and afraid, while Stone takes his rightful place by his father’s side, as Prince Stolas.

  Torn between duty and love, Vassago and Stone will be forced to decide where their loyalties lie, and for whom they will fight. It will take an ancient curse and a vow that can’t easily be broken, to prevent a war—a battle for revenge and redemption
that will ultimately decide the fate of the dark souls’ hearts.

  In this second installment of the Dark Souls Series, fate curses the brothers and they must navigate ancient deceits and potent forewarnings to save the ones they love. Can the two enemies become each other’s saviors? Or will the Circles fall and love fade?

  Start at the beginning with

  (THE REVELATION SERIES, BOOK ONE)

  I’M RUNNING, AND NOT VERY WELL, might I add. My lungs burn and my shallow breathing erratically bounces off the slick stone walls. I keep moving forward, forcing myself farther and farther into the dark underground passage. It’s cold, damp, and smells like musk.

  “What the hell is following me?” I ask myself, as confusion sets in. The only thing I’m certain of is that I’m bone-chillingly terrified, down to the core of my very soul. I’m frightened that whatever is chasing me will catch me, because when it does, there’s no doubt it will kill me. Its hatred and anger rolls off it in waves, crashing through me like a sharp gust of wind, suffocating me. I’m positive it’s pure evil.

  Just as I reach the end of the tunnel, I hit a solid wall, ceasing my progress and ending my futile efforts at escape. “Shit,” I whisper out loud, while I strike my palms against the water-slicked stones. Feeling defeated, I place my forehead to the damp wall and release a soft whimper.

  I need to figure out my options, quickly. I sense its presence closing in, dropping the tunnel’s temperature from cool and damp to downright frigid, the glacial air settling around the passageway. My breath comes out in a cloud in front of me. My heart rate increases as I stifle the gag reflex being challenged by the rancid smell of sulfur and sour milk.

  “Eeeve,” it hisses, mocking me. Sensing my deepest fears, it begins to play with me by using those emotions against me. “Oh God,” I exhale, as I close my eyes and rub my temples, trying to ease the dread rising in my throat.

  Panicked, I start talking to myself. “Think, Eve.” I turn around, allowing my eyes to scan over the dark enclosed area. All I can see in front of me is black. Blowing out a harsh breath, I begin to pray for a miracle as I wait for it to manifest.

  “Nope, nothing,” I say dejectedly to no one.

  I twist back to the wall. In a frantic state, I push and pound on the large, dark gray stones, trying anything. I’m desperate, and there’s an off-chance that located somewhere is a hidden opening that could grant me freedom.

  Then I hear it. The thing I fear most. I spin and freeze, fixed in my spot at the hissing sound of slithering snakes. Oh shit, now I’m really afraid. My heartbeat echoes in my ears as a severe chill runs down the length of my spine. My lips force air out sharply in a frenzied state, causing strands of fallen hair to jump away from my face with each irregular breath.

  Without warning, the tunnel goes silent. The only sound ricocheting off the wet stones is my strained breath being forced into the dark abyss. I remind myself to inhale before I suffer from a full-blown panic attack. With great slowness, I rotate to face my attacker.

  No one is there.

  As I swallow hard, my eyes shift down to the floor and take in the dark tendrils of smoke that crawl around my ankles, rooting me to the ground. What the hell? My eyes dart around wildly, searching for the point of origin of the wisp, but there isn’t one.

  With my back pressed flat against the cold concrete wall and the dampness seeping into my shirt, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that this is how I’m going to die. I close my eyes in acceptance and attempt to steady my breathing, listening to the droplets of water hitting the ground.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  I try to convince myself it will be okay as the dark cloud works its way up my body, wrapping forcefully around my neck and cutting off the oxygen supply sustaining me.

  Black spots form behind my closed eyelids as I become light-headed and dizzy. The lack of oxygen begins to take hold of my body, and I start to lose consciousness. Crap.

  “Dimittet eam, Nero,” I hear a strong male voice order, in a calm yet deadly tone.

  I can’t see my savior. Everything is shrouded in darkness. Maybe he isn’t even here, and I’m hallucinating in my final moments of life.

  The black mist loosens its choke hold on my neck while hissing angrily. “Deus tuus, ibi est filia eius.”

  A putrid gust of air blankets my face with each seething mock. Changing its mind, the evil smoke cackles, wrapping around my throat again and gripping firmly, causing me to wheeze. What the fuck?

  “Dixit mittam tibi pergat ad profundum inferni, sive,” my liberator says heatedly in Latin.

  Nero releases me, then turns to my rescuer, morphing into the outline of a man. At the discharge of its hold, my body slides down the slick wall, landing harshly on the glacial, water-soaked stone floor. I begin coughing and gasping for air as I place my head between my legs, willing air into my lungs.

  “Et subdit quod me putesssss?” Nero hisses.

  “Yes, you repulsive excuse of an existence, I do think I can send you back to the depths of Hell,” my protector replies calmly, yet cockily.

  “Et veniunt ad me ut, gurgulio,” Nero states, in a final slithery tone. At that command, my savior pulls out a long, black, granite sword that reflects the water cascading down the passage walls.

  “Delectabiliter,” the dark knight replies coldly, before he attacks.

  Even wrapped in blackness, I can sense he’s a trained warrior. His body moves with ease and agility as he engages Nero. I hear each whoosh the sword makes as it slices effortlessly through the air, making contact with each thrust.

  I can’t make out any of the warrior’s facial features, but I know he’s large and moves fast and efficiently. I close my eyes for a brief second, only to throw them open in alarm at the high-pitched shriek coming from the thing called Nero, as it bursts into blue flames and vanishes.

  That’s when I officially lose control over my emotions and begin to shake uncontrollably, with tears flowing down my pale cheeks. The blackness engulfs me, choking me. I shut my eyes, wishing that everything would just stop, and that I was anywhere else.

  All of a sudden, I feel warmth and calm flow through my veins, as my guardian kneels down next to me and pulls me into his safe embrace with gentleness. He strokes my hair, trying to pacify me as I cling to him for life.

  The masculine scent of smoky wood and leather fills my nose, as his deep voice whispers in my ear.

  “Hush. It’s all right. You’re safe. No harm will come to you. I’ve got you.” His tone is slow and soft, as if speaking to a wounded animal, lulling me into a state of calmness.

  With great tenderness, his large, warm hands cup my cheeks and lift my face to meet his, wiping the tears away with his thumbs—a pointless effort, since the flow increases with the kind gesture.

  My gaze lifts and connects with a pair of glowing indigo eyes. They’re staring at me with such intensity and affection that his look creates an ache deep within my chest, as my body draws itself to his of its own accord, like it knows him.

  The voice belonging to those eyes speaks with a firm vow. “I will protect you . . . always.”

  Gasping for air, I abruptly sit up in bed and swallow down a scream. My fists clutch my blanket in a severe death grip, as pieces of my light brown hair fall from my ponytail and stick to the sweat on my face and neck.

  I drop my head into my waiting hands and realize my cheeks are wet, most likely from the tears that escaped my hazel eyes during my nightmare.

  The dampness causes my long, dark lashes to stick to one another while I rub them. The lids open, then close again, and I order myself to take even breaths to calm my erratic heartbeat. As I slowly open them for the final time, my heart rate picks up once more, at the realization of what’s coming next.

  I turn to my left and steel myself.

  “What. The. Hell. Eve!” Aria, my roommate and self-appointed best friend, screeches, and I wince from the high-pitched octave. Crap. I woke her up,
again.

  She’s sitting on her bed, looking like a pissed-off fairy. Her normally cute pink, pixie-cut hair is suffering a major case of bed head, sticking up in all directions.

  “Are you okay?” Aria asks, with an irritated yet concern-laced voice, and her petite hands on her curvy hips. She’s staring at me, waiting for an explanation as I open and close my mouth like a gaping fish, trying to form intelligent words.

  “Sorry, I um, bad dream,” I mutter inarticulately.

  “No shit,” she says, with sarcasm dripping from her lips. “Same one?” The question is thrown out along with some serious stink eye radiating from her round chocolate orbs.

  Arianna “Aria” Donovan dislikes being woken up in the middle of the night. I know this because we’ve been college roommates for all of one month now. Which means I’ve woken her up more times than I care to count.

  We met over the summer during freshman orientation, and according to Aria, it was “friendship at first sight.” As new students, we were placed into groups of ten and forced to play this ridiculous get-to-know-you game where each person had a photo of a particular cartoon character taped to their back. The goal was to ask the group questions in an attempt to gain enough information to guess who your character was, so you could partner up with your match for the rest of orientation.

  Aria was Bert and I was Ernie. We’ve been inseparable ever since, even requesting to room together this semester. Well, in truth, Aria demanded we room together, and since I’m pretty easygoing, I didn’t put up a fight, figuring it would be nice to know someone.

  At the moment, I’m thinking she’s second-guessing her choice in roommates.

  She sighs and prowls to the minifridge, grabbing a bottle of water and shoving it in my hand before turning on the crystal-embellished lamp on the pink thrift-store-revived table between our beds.

  Our dorm room is a decent size. We got lucky in the housing lottery and managed to snag a suite. Unfortunately, that means we share it with two other roommates.