Stolas: A Dark Soul Series Novel

by Randi Cooley Wilson

  The space consists of two shared bedrooms, a common lounge area, and an attached bathroom. Overall, it’s your typical college dorm room, amped up with Aria’s thrift store finds reincarnated into amazing pieces of art, because she is an eternal optimist and believes everything can be redeemed.

  Her décor style matches her schizophrenic personality to perfection—Barbie meets Marilyn Manson. She’s the only person I know who can pull off pink combat boots, black nail polish, and dark black smoky eyeliner with a pink sundress, and have it look adorably sexy.

  I like her one-of-a-kind style. It offsets my average, girl-next-door fashion sense, which usually consists of skinny jeans, knee-high boots, and a cotton long-sleeved shirt. I suppose it’s what originally drew me to her—opposites attract. I also presume that’s what makes our friendship fun.

  The cousins, our other two suitemates, are a different story. Speaking of which, I need to take cover as the door to our room crashes open in dramatic fashion and both Abby and McKenna enter the room like a Victoria’s Secret pajama commercial.

  Abby, the younger of the two cousins by only a few months, smiles with her delicate arms folded, allowing her long red hair to cascade over her refined shoulders.

  “You okay, Eve?” she asks with concern.

  Even at three in the morning, Abigail “Abby” Connor is ethereal looking. She’s wearing her black flannel pajama bottoms and a cute green T-shirt that says, Kiss Me, I’m Irish. The green brings out the flecks of shimmer in her crystal-blue eyes.

  I force a casual shrug. “Yeah. Just another bad dream. Sorry to wake you guys up again.”

  She responds with a warm smile.

  On the other hand, McKenna just grunts. I’ve deduced it’s simply because she hates talking to people.

  Now that I think about it, McKenna “Kenna” McIntyre just dislikes people in general. She’s always ranting about the “human race” being inferior. Inferior to whom, she’s never clarified. Most of the time, her off-handed comments go in one ear and out the other, because they’re so frequent.

  I exhale and take a sip of water, the cool liquid hydrating my dry throat.

  McKenna narrows her sapphire eyes, outlined with lush black lashes, at me. “Seriously, Eve. I’m tired of waking up to your fucking screaming every night,” she comments in a harsh tone.

  I grimace. “Was I screaming? Sorry, I had no idea,” I offer. Of course I was screaming. I was being choked to death, for God’s sake. The shrieking might also be why my throat feels like sandpaper, making it painful to swallow or talk.

  Turning like a graceful but angry swan, McKenna heads toward the doorway, stopping just before making her dramatic exit. “You look like shit, by the way,” she snarls, and flicks her long, platinum-blonde hair over her shoulder to enhance her point. With that, she storms out, fuzzy slippers and all.

  Most of the student body on campus is terrified of McKenna. It would be wishful thinking to assume they’re put off by her “sass” and “straight shooting” attitude.

  I think she just gets off on intimidating people. She also has no filter, a vocabulary rivaling any truck driver, and can make even the strongest person fold into her- or himself with her malevolent stare.

  Needless to say, the jury is still out on our friendship. It’s only been four weeks. Abby, on the other hand, is extremely likable, and is becoming a good friend.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, for the fourth time this week.

  The nightmares began on my eighteenth birthday. Each time, I wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for air, crying and screaming from being terrified and tortured in the outlandish dream. It’s been rough, to say the least.

  Lying back on my pillow, I put my arm over my eyes, willing my body to calm itself down, as the adrenaline still pumps wildly through my veins. I try using the breathing techniques I’ve learned through years of studying yoga. It’s not working.

  Abby fidgets with unease. “Kenna doesn’t mean to be bitchy. She’s just tired,” she excuses the poor behavior, a maternal habit of hers.

  With poise, she sits on my bed, removing my arm from my hidden face. “Do you want to talk about it?” She offers a small smile. “It might help make it less scary and real if you say it out loud.” Abby pauses before continuing. “You’d be surprised at my level of understanding when it comes to fear-provoking things,” she says at almost an inaudible level.

  “No. Thanks, Abby. I’m good. Just a bad dream,” I say as persuasively as I can, for both our sakes, because if she knew what lurked in the darkness of the dreams, she’d have me committed.

  Abby studies my face for a moment, searching for a hint of deceit. When she’s convinced I’m all right, she stands to go back to her own room. “Okay, but if you change your mind, come and get me. I’m happy to listen, Eve. Night, girls,” she utters in a sweet voice before leaving.

  McKenna and Abby are both tall and built like dancers. While Abby exudes grace and regality, McKenna radiates fierce warrior princess. When they’re together, it’s intimidating.

  Aria just stands there, staring at me, taking this all in while wearing her favorite pink T-shirt and matching boy shorts. All five feet of her looks both adorable and annoyed.

  “Fine,” she huffs, and relinquishes the idea that I want to elaborate on my nightmare-induced state. She crawls back into bed, pulls up her ruffled pink blanket, and turns off the light.

  We sit in silence, the moonlight shining through the window, bathing the room in a blue glow and twisting the shadows on the walls. I turn my eyes upwards to the ceiling, focusing on it with immense concentration, wishing the terrifying dreams would stop so I could have a normal night’s sleep.

  After a few moments, Aria rolls over to face me as the night’s silver light bounces off her features, masked in sympathetic concern. She goes to speak, but I cut her off.

  “Please don’t, Aria. I just don’t have it in me tonight,” I whisper, pleading for her to back off.

  “Okay, but at some point we need to figure this out, Eve. I’m worried about you.” She sighs, turns over, and goes to sleep.

  I’m left to contemplate my dreams and their meaning while, once again, staring into the abyss of darkness.

  OCTOBER IN MASSACHUSETTS BRINGS COOL FALL temperatures. Little by little, this charming New England campus, crammed with brick buildings and puritan heritage, is filling with warm autumn colors. I close the required reading for my Rhetorical Criticism class and take in a deep, cleansing breath, allowing the crisp air to fill my lungs while I sit on my favorite bench under an old oak tree in the campus quad.

  I have an unusual connection to the tree. Perhaps it’s the sheer size that comforts me, deceiving me with the sensation of being secure and sheltered. I’ve been on edge lately, as if a dangerous storm is coming—an illogical sentiment, since Kingsley College has been voted the safest college campus in the Northeast for the past ten years.

  It’s for that reason alone my overprotective aunt allowed me to attend in the first place, using some of the trust fund my parents left me after their deaths. Well, that and five forced years of studying Krav Maga. My beautiful and crazy aunt required I take it in high school and continue in college, because a girl can never be too safe or prepared. Her words.

  Buried within a small town, the college epitomizes educational greatness and is steeped in rich academic tradition. At least that’s what it says in the brochure. With a small community of just under six thousand students and flawlessly manicured estate-like grounds, Kingsley overflows with scholarly charm.

  The entire campus sprawls out on three hundred acres, meaning you could walk from the west side to the east in under twenty minutes, or if feeling lazy, you can take the shuttle bus in five, which I’m sure I’ll appreciate in the snow-filled months.

  I’m currently on the west side of campus in the main courtyard. It has well-kept landscaping for miles, adorned with brick walkways, blooming fall flowers, and oak-tree-lined streets proudly boasting their warm orange, gol
d, and brown fall leaves.

  My bench faces the centerpiece of the campus. Belmont Hall is an impressive brick building, showcasing four thick white pillars. Ten massive steps lead up to the large white double doors. It sits at the head of the quad like the queen of all university buildings. It’s also the picturesque structure used on all the brochures to lure you into academic life here, promising exemplary education leading to a productive and fulfilling post-educational life.

  I could sit here for hours and people-watch. Wrapped up in my reverie, I barely notice a small area near the trees harboring a soft blue glow. As my eyes focus on the illuminated area, my skin heats and warmth begins to flow through my veins. I’m having the oddest case of déjà vu.

  I narrow my eyes, trying to get a better look at the radiance that has captured my interest, but whatever it was dissolves into thin air. As if nothing happened, I feel myself being released from the seize it had on me, leaving me empty and alone as coldness emanates through me, replacing the warmth.

  “Great. Now I’m seeing glowing blue spots,” I mutter under my breath. “I’m also talking to myself. Yep, Eve, it’s official. You’re starting to friggin’ lose it.” I seriously need a good night’s sleep, or Aria’s going to have me admitted to the psych ward.

  My thought process is interrupted and my attention shifts to a group of giddy girls, whispering and giggling. Internally rolling my eyes, curiosity gets the best of me and I turn to see what the uproar is about.

  Leaning on a classic black Wiesmann Roadster, in the parking lot near Lexington Hall, is a tall, lean, good-looking guy. He’s smiling at his fangirl harem.

  Smoldering hot guy is the type of male that females instantly drop their panties for. No doubt he makes every girl feel as if they’re the only one on the planet. Damn if he didn’t have the chiseled cheeks and blond scruff along his perfect jawline to solidify the cliché.

  He runs a large hand through his golden hair, which falls to the midway point on his neck in a sexy cut, a stark contrast to his all-black outfit consisting of tailored dress pants, a V-neck T-shirt, a watch, and designer shoes that probably cost more than my tuition.

  This guy’s obvious love for black reeks of trouble. God, I need to stop gawking and drooling.

  Lighting a cigarette, he turns, catching my eye with his. He gives me a slight nod as if he knows me. Then he shifts his sea-green eyes to the area I was just staring at in the courtyard, narrowing them while blowing out the nicotine-infested smoke from his mouth. He methodically rubs his lips with his thumb in contemplation.

  Confused, I look back and forth between the quad area and him, but can’t make out a connection or reason for his peculiar behavior. He refocuses his gaze back to me, bestowing a sexy but emotionally void smile.

  Wariness runs over me. There’s something aloof and conniving about him. He gives the impression of being standoffish, but it’s too controlled, forced even. As if he knows what I’m thinking, the boy sneers at me and turns back to the scatterbrained girls vying for his attention. He says something that appears to be brilliant, because I swear they all swoon and blush simultaneously.

  “Hey. Who’s the hot guy?” Aria inquires, plopping down next to me, chomping on her pink bubble gum.

  Is everything this girl touches pink?

  “I don’t know. He just appeared, looking all cunning and surrounded by his fan club,” I say, feigning disinterest but keeping my eyes glued to him, watching his every move with an abnormal curiosity.

  “Well, he’s YUMMY. I wouldn’t mind licking him up and down like a lollipop,” she states with enthusiasm, wiggling her eyebrows.

  I glance matter-of-factly at her. “Don’t you think the other ten guys you’re currently sleeping with would be upset if they saw you licking him in broad daylight, in the quad no less?”

  “I’m not sleeping with ten guys,” Aria fakes offense. “It’s only three.” She pretends to sulk.

  I offer a smug smirk. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to over exaggerate your promiscuity.”

  “Listen, I can’t help it if the male species is drawn to my raw magnetic pull,” Aria says. “I think it’s the pink hair combined with my fishnets and combat boots.”

  “I imagine it’s the short skirts, C-cups and open-door policy, but, hey, that’s just me,” I jest, and stick my tongue out in an adult fashion.

  She pushes my shoulder with little effort behind it. “Jealous, Eves? If someone would let go of her virtue, someone might be less tightly wound,” she adds in a dry tone. “Maybe your night terrors are caused by sexual frustration?”

  She blows a pink bubble with her gum and pops it.

  I exhale, tired. “Maybe.” The girl has a valid point.

  “In my professional opinion, a good orgasm is just what you need to help end the nightmares.” Aria uses her fake psychiatrist tone to make me smile.

  I stand and grab her, yanking her off the bench. “Come on, Freud. We’re going to be late.”

  She bats her eyes prettily at me. “What? We’re learning about psychosexual development in Psychology 101.”

  I bark out a short laugh. “That explains today’s unfortunate probing into my nonexistent sex life.”

  We begin to walk over to the Art Center, and Aria grabs my hand, halting my movement as she looks over her shoulder. I follow her line of sight to a set of smoldering sea-green eyes.

  “At least admit hotness has a really cool car,” she purrs, and smacks my ass, causing me to yelp in surprise.

  “Aria! Come on,” I order. My tone is laced with annoyance as I glance once more toward the parking lot.

  She’s right. The car is smoking hot.

  As a communications major, Architecture is not a class I’m overjoyed to be sitting in this semester. However, it does fulfill my art prerequisite and it’s the only afternoon class that fit into my schedule. So here I am, begrudgingly awaiting my instruction on “the fundamental devotion to the examination of the built environment,” according to the first line in my textbook.

  Professor Davidson is not known for easy grading or motivating lectures. As a matter of fact, he’s notorious for his rather lengthy and tedious explanations, specifically his sermons focused on Gothic architecture during the medieval period. I hear they’re as appealing as pulling out your own fingernails.

  I’m planted in my normal seat in the back of the lecture hall, hiding in the throng of the hundred students suffering along with me, and internally cursing myself for not putting this credit off until the semester before graduation.

  My eyes follow Professor Davidson as he walks into class, holding his beat-up old brown leather satchel and playing with his salt and pepper hair. His thick glasses and tweed suit add to the ensemble, topped off with a bow tie no less. I sigh. It’s been a long month, meaning it’s going to be an even longer semester.

  Aria left me at the door to head to her design class. She’s hoping to work for a large advertising agency, like her dad, when she graduates as a graphic designer, much to the dismay of her mom. As a doctor, she would prefer Aria join the practice. I envy Aria for her perfect family.

  My mom and dad both died when I was a baby, leaving me to grow up alone with my mother’s only sister, Elizabeth. Aunt Elizabeth loves to dress in long, billowy skirts, and is a bit scatterbrained, but she’s warm, affectionate, and has loved me every day like I was her own daughter. She’s also a very talented jewelry designer and owns a shop on Martha’s Vineyard.

  She never married nor had kids of her own, which surprises me, because she’s quite beautiful; blessed with the same light brown, long hair as Mom and me. Her warm hazel eyes just draw people to her. I actually look so much like her that people tend to think she’s my older sister instead of my forty-year-old guardian.

  Smiling at thoughts of my aunt, I don’t notice class has started and I should be taking notes. Crap. I turn on my iPad while Professor Davidson drones on and on about architecture’s effect on art in the thirteenth century.

 
Midway through the lecture, I stifle a yawn, stretching my neck to the left, then the right, while my wandering eyes lock on a set of full, kissable lips. I lift my gaze to see whom said lips belong to. The very attractive owner is seated one chair over from me, looking every bit as bored and annoyed as I am.

  Everything about him attracts me, especially his indigo eyes outlined in dark lashes that fan softly over his cheeks. He has dark brown hair, short in the back and sides, but longer and styled on top in sexy, messy pieces. I fleetingly contemplate what it would be like to run my fingers through his hair as I chew on the inside of my cheek, a nervous habit of mine.

  His five o’clock shadow highlights a chiseled jawline that, at the moment, is clenched so tightly it’s triggering a slight tic in his striking cheek muscle. Odd.

  My eyes travel down the right side of his body, roaming over his forearm. A striking Celtic cross tattoo is displayed on the inside.

  He has on a plain white T-shirt, worn blue jeans, and kick-ass black motorcycle boots. There are two thick, black leather bands adorning each of his wrists, adding to his masculine style.

  Hotness crosses his arms, showing off his toned biceps and blocking the taut chest I’ve been staring at, hidden under his cotton shirt.

  I lean closer, drawn to him like a magnet.

  Suddenly, he narrows his eyes at me, with an intensity that could be construed as anger. At the force of his stare, my heart lurches and breathing becomes difficult. The warm sensation from earlier begins to run through my veins, causing me to shift uncomfortably in my seat.

  Without me noticing, he’s leaned over the empty seat between us. “See something you like?” his deep, masculine voice asks in a malicious whisper.

  Those plump lips are now set in a hard line. Our eyes lock and hold one another’s for what feels like an eternity, before I drop mine.

  My cheeks flush with embarrassment as realization sets in. I was just caught openly checking him out. Crap.