Stolas: A Dark Soul Series Novel Read online

  Stolas

  Copyright © 2017 by Randi Cooley Wilson

  All rights reserved. Thank you for purchasing an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without written permission of the author or publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by SECRET GARDEN PRODUCTIONS, INC.

  Edited by Victoria Rae Schmitz | Crimson Tide Editorial

  Copy edited by Liz Ferry | Per Se Editing

  Cover Design by Regina Wamba | MaeIDesign.com

  Cover Model: Eli Hewitt

  Interior Design & Formatting by Christine Borgford | Type A Formatting

  STOLAS (A Dark Soul Novel, Book #1)/Randi Cooley Wilson

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition May 2017

  ISBN-13: 978–1533493910

  ISBN-10: 153349391X

  DARK SOUL SERIES

  STOLAS

  VASSAGO

  LEVIATHAN

  THE REVELATION SERIES

  REVELATION

  RESTRAINT

  REDEMPTION

  REVOLUTION

  RESTORATION

  THE ROYAL PROTECTOR ACADEMY NOVELS

  VERNAL

  AEQUUS

  NOX

  Table of Contents

  STOLAS

  Also by Randi Cooley Wilson

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  PART I

  Chapter One: Dark Mind

  Chapter Two: The Red Serpent

  Chapter Three: Beneath the Mask

  Chapter Four: Forbidden Knowledge

  Chapter Five: Down the Rabbit Hole

  Chapter Six: The Gates to Nowehere

  Chapter Seven: City of Weeping

  Chapter Eight: Blood and Water

  Chapter Nine: War of Hearts

  Chapter Ten: Unapologetic

  Chapter Eleven: The Dividing Line

  Chapter Twelve: A City of Lost Souls

  Chapter Thirteen: Gods and Monsters

  Chapter Fourteen: Mark of the Damned

  Chapter Fifteen: Convetousness

  Chapter Sixteen: Stillness and Calm

  Chapter Seventeen: Eternal Pain

  Chapter Eighteen: Right Road

  Author's Note

  VASSAGO ~ Coming Soon

  Excerpt from REVELATION

  Excerpt from VERNAL

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For those who are haunted by darkness,

  but emerge in the light.

  Through me you go into a city of weeping; through me you go into eternal pain;

  through me you go amongst the lost people.

  Dante Alighieri, Inferno

  Prince Stolas

  A SILKY, FEMALE LEG BRUSHES against my bare skin, eliciting a pleasurable moan from my chest. The air reeks of top-shelf liquor, sex, and expensive perfume. I smirk, knowing my father would be pleased.

  After a few solid attempts to open my eyes, I relinquish my efforts. Screw it. It’s not like I have anything important to do today. I tuck the naked female to my right under my arm, as a second soft body curls itself around my back. I picked up the twins on a recent journey to India. Moments like this remind me just how good it is to be me.

  I bask in my own fortune and sink back into the comfort of my large bed. Manicured, red fingernails brush over the black script inked onto my chest: Lasciate Ogne Speranza.

  Abandon All Hope.

  I shift and snatch her hand away.

  No one touches the script that brands me.

  Moments later, when my body relaxes once again, I feel myself drift. Just as I’m about to visit her in my dream, the door to my chamber at my father’s estate slams open. The smell of sulfur and the sounds of silent screams interrupt my peace.

  “Get your things and get the fuck out,” my father’s voice booms.

  My eyes casually slide open, but I don’t move. Instead, I watch as two startled faces rise from the silk covers, looking confused and thoroughly embarrassed.

  The guards enter next, following their king like good little minions. Their eyes roam around the room before landing on my naked form with disgust.

  Ironic, given their demon status.

  I wave at them playfully, smirking before folding my hands behind my head and settling back to watch the scene unfold.

  “I said get out,” my father snarls again, causing the girls to hurriedly collect their clothing and head to the door, where the security detail escorts them away.

  A cold gaze meets mine, and a not-so-patient glare dominates my father’s hardened expression. “Stolas.”

  “My Lord,” I reply in a bored tone.

  “I see your trip to India was . . . successful?”

  “It would appear that way.”

  His eyes darken, becoming almost black. “The president of the Republic?”

  “Has pledged his allegiance to you, as you desired, my Lord.” I wave my hand at my disheveled bed. “His daughters were a show of solidarity and gratitude.”

  Distant eyes flash before he shuts the door and takes a seat in the velvet chair across from my bed. I reposition myself, covering my lower body with the cool sheet.

  My father’s expression grows serious. “The oracle has been located.”

  We sit in silence as I ponder the enormity of his words.

  The oracle.

  The final piece of my father’s rule-the-world plan.

  “Who are you sending to retrieve him?”

  “Her,” he corrects.

  My brows pull together while I try to decipher what he’s saying.

  “Not him, Stolas. A female. A human girl,” he points out.

  “Female?” I repeat in shock. “That is certainly an interesting turn of events.”

  He runs his long fingers through his thick raven hair. It’s the same shade as my own, the only physical trait we share. His dark eyes do one more scan of the room, before a small hint of pride disappears from behind his stare.

  “You are the prince of this realm, and while I appreciate your penchant for beautiful women, sex, drugs, and partying, there is more to commanding the Circles than these indulgences. Someday, son, this will be yours to rule, but first you must prove to me that you can do so.” He lifts his chin. “You are the one who will retrieve the oracle.”

  I nod and remain silent. It’s an easy task. Women love me.

  “Take Vassago with you,” he adds.

  I groan like a petulant child.

  “Your brother has been hunting her.”

  “Half-brother,” I mutter.

  “Regardless, he is a Seeker and will be an asset to you on this mission. The mortal’s retrieval is a delicate matter. Obtaining her must be done swiftly and efficiently. Do I need to remind you what will happen if you are unsuccessful?” His tone is lethal.

  Lucifer doesn’t respond well to failure.

  “Not at all, my Lord.”

  “You have thirty days.” Standing, he makes his way toward the chamber door. Before he disappears, the king of the Nine Circles of Hell looks over his shoulder. “And Stolas . . . prince or not, if you don’t bring her to me in time, I will kill you.”

  PART I

  Abandon All Hope

  DARK MIND

  Hope

  SILENCE ENVELOPS THE ROOM AS my reflection peers back at me from the windowpane. The br
ight sun feels warm on my face, but the air surrounding me is chilly. A deep shiver rolls through my body as I stare vacantly at the outside world.

  “There is no reason this has to be difficult, Miss Annandale.”

  Startled by the voice, I blink rapidly and pull my stare away from the dark figure hiding behind a snow-covered tree. An outwardly undetected quiver of fear shudders from within my soul. The figure’s constant presence is the reason my mind has turned dark.

  “Miss Annandale?” the inquisitive voice firmly repeats.

  I exhale and slowly shift my attention to the warm, vibrant gentleman who is assessing me with a curious expression. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” I manage.

  The expensive leather groans under his weight as he sits back in his executive chair, quietly scrutinizing my disposition. Dr. Cornelius Foster has been silently studying me since I walked through the door, fingers tented under his strong chin. It’s unnerving.

  Even so, I don’t show my discomfort. I’ve learned that displaying alarm is cause for medication. And the meds only serve to darken my mind further.

  I focus on the prestigious degrees and awards the good doctor proudly showcases on the rich burgundy wall behind his mahogany desk. They’re impressive. He’s impressive.

  None of it matters though. He can’t help me. No one can.

  “Let’s talk about the voices. Are you still hearing them?”

  The voices are constant. Never ending. But that isn’t what he wants to hear.

  The hundreds of thousands of dollars he’s spent on those framed degrees won’t allow the voices to still be there. What he doesn’t grasp is, if years of conventional medical treatments and medication haven’t helped, one hour in a Swiss “healing spa” certainly isn’t going to.

  I fake a smile. “They’re much quieter now.”

  Dr. Foster dips his chin. “And the demons? Do you still see them?”

  I can’t help but notice how bright his crisp, button-down shirt looks against his dark chocolate skin. The white is pure. Ethereal. For a moment, I pretend he’s an angel sent from Heaven to protect me from evil. The light to fight the darkness that has settled deep within the corners of my mind.

  “Hope?” he prompts, using my name.

  “I haven’t seen one since landing in Switzerland,” I lie.

  Dr. Foster’s brow furrows and he runs a large hand over his full beard. The gesture causes me to stare at the few strands of gray mixed in with the black. For a man in his early fifties, Cornelius Foster certainly is easy on the eyes. His features remind me of that actor, Idris Elba. Unlike the other doctors before him, he’s sharp and seems to be able to read me.

  Lost in thought, I suddenly realize he’s now leaning on his desk in front of me, muscular arms crossed, gaze calculating.

  “Hope,” he commands my attention again. “You’re safe here. Our patient-doctor relationship only works if you are candid during our sessions. I can’t help if you don’t truthfully tell me what is going on inside your head. While you are here, I expect open and honest communication. There is no judgment. I’m here to aid in your healing.”

  An awkward silence lingers between us.

  Aid in my healing. Is that what I’m here to do? Heal? If it were only that easy.

  It’s been two years since my twenty-first birthday; for two years my mind has been haunted by visions of suffering, pain, and torture. The images are burned into my memory.

  They aren’t something you heal from. Or forget.

  I squeeze my eyes closed and attempt to push them away, along with the bile that threatens to rise.

  A small knock at the door breaks through our quiet standoff.

  “Come in,” Dr. Foster answers, without taking his gaze off me.

  I twist my focus to the girl who slides into his office. With her presence, a cold chill spreads through my limbs. The stranger’s brown eyes are vacant. Just like mine.

  She’s young, around my age, and looks to be of Native American heritage. Her straight, brown hair falls to her waist and is parted down the middle. I watch as she robotically flips it over a slender shoulder. The gesture is odd—forced even. There’s no feeling behind it. It’s almost as if someone programmed her to blink, breathe, and move every few seconds as a way for her to appear human.

  “Hope, this is Lore,” Dr. Foster says by way of introduction. “She’ll be your suitemate during your stay here at Shadowbrook.”

  I frown. “Suitemate? I thought my parents requested a private suite?”

  The psychiatrist smirks. “Human nature thrives on community. I believe it’s healthy to be social. Having a suitemate will be beneficial to your healing. You’ll see.”

  I don’t answer him, as I once again meet Lore’s unresponsive expression.

  “We’re done for the day.” Dr. Foster walks around and sits behind his desk. “Lore will show you around the grounds, and help to get you settled in. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon for our weekly private session.”

  Relieved at the dismissal, I stand and face my new roommate. She’s silent as she opens the door and waits for me to walk through. Maybe Lore doesn’t speak. I can understand the desire to remain quiet and keep people at arm’s length. Especially in a place like this.

  As I pass by her to walk through the doorway, I watch as the inky shadows swirl around her aura. At the sight, my breath hitches. No air moves in or out of my lungs.

  Annoyed with my lack of movement, she huffs and steps around me into the hallway, leaving me no choice but to follow at a quick pace.

  The sound of a robotic movement pulls me from the shadowy path my mind is wandering down. My gaze lifts and locks onto a small lens with a flashing red light.

  “Cameras?” I confirm.

  “They’re everywhere,” Lore says flatly, without a look back.

  My gaze jumps around, taking in each of the small devices as we continue to walk down the hallway. The heels of our shoes echo as we step on the elegant hardwood floors.

  Shadowbrook feels like a five-star resort. People are relaxing everywhere—sprinkled around inviting velvet chaises and chairs. They’re reading, writing, and using tablets in a mundane manner, as if this is a hotel and they’re simply guests enjoying their vacation.

  It’s all so . . . normal.

  Unsettling.

  Lore and I step into a large open room with vaulted ceilings. There is a full wall of windows on one side overlooking the retreat grounds and snow-covered mountains, and a baby grand piano on the other side, in front of a roaring fireplace and shelves of books.

  The room is warm and cozy, filled with oversized couches and chairs. The walls, furniture, and accents are decorated in shades of tranquil grayish-blues and dark browns. Game tables are set up, and a gigantic glass chandelier hangs from the middle of the room.

  I feel my throat tighten a little at the thought of how much like home this room feels.

  I miss Connecticut, my friends, my parents, and my life—before it all fell apart.

  “Do you like it?” Lore asks, uninterested in my answer.

  “It’s like a modern Swiss chalet.” I exhale. “What’s not to like?”

  “This is the game and lounge area,” Lore continues monotonously. “Where you come to play games . . . and lounge.” She speaks slowly, as if I wouldn’t understand.

  Is this girl serious? By the blank expression settled across her stunning features, it appears she is. “I can see that,” I respond, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.

  She ignores me and I follow her quietly as she guides me through more hallways, until we come to a set of double glass doors. We step closer, and with a whoosh, they slide open to reveal a dining hall. The smell of coffee and baked goods assaults me, conjuring up images of my hometown coffee shop, where I’m currently wishing I was, reading a book.

  “The dining hall is open twenty-four hours for all of your nutritional needs.”

  “Nutritional needs,” I parrot.

  Lore rolls her
eyes and focuses on the empty room.

  “Where are the trays and food windows?”

  Her cold glare swings back to me and her brows pinch. “There are servers who take your request and bring it to you once it has been prepared to your liking by our chefs. When you are done, hired staff will remove your used cutlery, china, and glassware for washing.”

  “So, no KP duty?” I quip.

  The last facility I was at required every resident to lend a hand in the kitchen.

  Lore’s expression turns sour. “We are here to heal, not do dishes. This isn’t prison.”

  Speechless, I simply stand there.

  It’s obvious she’s never experienced a real mental health facility.

  I remain quiet during the tour of the library, outdoor meditation area, spa, and indoor fitness center. At the end, she leads us to our room, which turns out to be a penthouse suite. It has a common area, kitchenette, and two hallways—each leading to a large bedroom on either side of the apartment, with its own private bathroom. It’s very elegant.

  “The kitchen is stocked with basic needs. Water, fruit, and the like.” Her eyes scan the length of me. “No knives though. If you’re planning to commit suicide, you’ll need to break a mirror and slit your wrists. Or tie sheets together and hang yourself.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I mutter.

  After pointing out which room is mine, my suitemate disappears without another word. Alone, I release a deep breath and notice my bags have already been placed neatly on the carpeted floor. My gaze drifts over the luxurious, king-size bed.

  There are no hospital sheets here. The white cotton material is without a doubt Egyptian, and a minimum of fifteen hundred thread count. My eyes roam, searching for the restraints, but I come up empty. All that decorate the bed are taupe and steel-blue bolster pillows and fine linens. I look around my luxurious hotel-like surroundings.

  “What is this place?” I whisper into the emptiness.

  Twisting around, I drop into a wingback chair and trail my focus over the rest of the room. Mirrored side tables flank the large bed, decorated with lamps, vases of fresh cream flowers, and stone Buddha statues. A velvet-cushioned storage bench sits at the end of the bed, most likely holding extra pillows and blankets. It’s all so elegant and formal.