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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Harnessed Angels: The Quickening

  Copyright ã 2004 Ann Vremont

  ISBN: 1-55410-217-0

  Cover art and design by Ann Vremont/Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books, a division of Zumaya Publications, 2004

  Look for us online at:

  www.zumayapublications.com

  www.Extasybooks.com

  Dedication:

  To Terry & Jared, the two who will always fill my heart, and with many thanks to Chere & Billie for their continued encouragement.

  Chapter One

  It was acceptance day for the senior academic clubs at Ryesgate and Sara had avoided the mailroom until the last possible minute. As she pushed her way through the crowd of lingering students, she wondered which was her greater concern—that she would open her mailbox to find it empty or to find that she had been accepted into the Ancient Studies Club while Patrick, the pushy so-called family friend who had followed her to Ryesgate, had been rejected.

  Definitely the latter. She tumbled the lock to her mailbox. She already had job offers after graduation and she could live with being rejected. But if Patrick Burke had been rebuffed while Sara was allowed into the club, her life would be a living hell. Sara tried to push the prospect aside and opened the small door to reveal a rust-colored envelope bearing the club’s seal and addressed to Ms. Sara Elizabeth Xavier.

  She slid one finger along the inside fold of the envelope and removed a matching piece of notepaper. Her gaze skipped over the elegant script, with its complimentary language and requisite congratulations on her having been accepted into the Ryesgate Ancient Studies Society. When she saw the signature at the bottom, she allowed herself a small smirk. Colm O’Tethra. He was a graduate student—gorgeous, with a deep brogue, auburn hair very near in color to her own, and pale blue eyes. He had interrogated Sara mercilessly at the end of her junior year, when she interviewed for the club. The session, with his intense questioning, had stretched beyond the allotted half-hour and she had emerged convinced that she would be rejected. A second smirk surfaced as she wondered whether, and to what extent, it had pained Colm to sign the letter.

  “That’s a delicious smile, I hope it’s for me.”

  Sara looked up to find Patrick’s lanky frame leaning against the row of mailboxes. She glanced at the piece of notepaper and envelope and attempted to slip them between two bills.

  “You don’t need to hide that from me,” Patrick said. He pulled the piece of paper from the stack and began reading it aloud in an exaggerated manner, his head bobbing from side-to-side as he did so.

  “So, you were accepted, too?” Sara asked. She tried to keep her tone neutral but the idea of spending her final year in the same club, working on the same research as Patrick, suddenly seemed even more unbearable than having to tolerate his sullen pouting over the rejection.

  “I didn’t apply.”

  Sara looked at Patrick’s face while she framed her reply, studying the way he cast his eyes to the side and the quick little pucker that momentarily dotted his face. While the club didn’t openly list its applicants or members, O’Tethra had slipped up when interviewing her, warning her that she and Patrick shouldn’t assume acceptance because of their respective parents. So, this is what Patrick looks like when he tells a lie.

  She decided it was safest to keep her response simple. “Why not?”

  “Oh, come on, Sara,” Patrick said and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. He led her past the anxious freshman who waited to lock up the mailroom but lacked the temerity to kick anyone out, and down the building’s exterior steps to where his Audi was parked. “It’s really beneath me, don’t you think?”

  Patrick moved to open the passenger door for Sara but she stepped back onto the sidewalk. Had he really just said it was beneath him? Early September wind, still simmering with August heat, whipped through her hair, stoked her already short temper. The club existed at most Ivy League schools. Her father had been chapter president during his graduate studies at Princeton. Was her father, then, also beneath Patrick?

  Patrick saw the warning lights flashing in Sara’s eyes and took a conciliatory step toward her. “Now, Red, I know what you’re thinking and that’s not what I mean.” He smiled, as would an indulgent parent forced to explain the simplest thing to a small child. Sara hated the look almost as much as she hated him calling her 'Red' after he did something to make her mad.

  “I only know what you say, Patrick,” she responded. Despite the warm air that swirled around her and lifted her hair so that it looked like a living flame, she felt cold. The internal chill frosted her voice, paled her rosy lips and cheeks. “And you said that it was beneath you.”

  “Think about our parents for a second, Sara.” Patrick took a second step forward and she backed further away. He dipped his head to the side in irritation, scratched absently at his neck while he fumbled for the words that would smother her temper with reason. Instead, he only made things worse.

  “My dad is a departmental dean. Yours is a professor. If I wanted to do field research all summer and sit in the library the rest of my life, I would have applied to Ancient Studies, like your dad—like you.”

  “But you’re going to be a dean?” Sara asked. Patrick was too caught up in his speech to hear her question or notice the way she was chewing on her bottom lip.

  “Yes—which is why I joined the Senior Boys’ Social Club.” He leaned into her and his voice dropped to a whisper as he mentioned the club’s name.

  Sara knitted her brows at him. Had he just said he had joined the 'Senior Boys’ Social Club'?

  * * * *

  “The what?” she asked.

  Patrick heard the level edge in her voice at last, knew that she was still angry. In exasperation, he threw his hands up in the air and opened the driver’s side door.

  “Seriously,” Sara said, moving from the sidewalk to where he stood. “What was the name of the club?”

  “Shhh…” he said and motioned for her to lower her voice. “The Senior Boys’ Social Club.”

  Patrick saw that the group’s name meant nothing to Sara. True, he could hardly expect it to, it was a secret society, but she could still be a little more appreciative. He stared down into her eyes. Her irises were rimmed in dark emerald with a hazel starburst surrounding the pupil. He blinked, trying not to get lost in her fiery gaze, while he explained the nature of the club to her. “It’s like S.A.B.”

  Still no recognition.

  “Skull and Bones. Yale. You know?” Patrick raised his voice, then immediately lowered it and looked at a group of passing students to see if they had heard his outburst.

  * * * *

  “Oh, I see now,” Sara said. She plastered a thin smile on her face, wishing that he would just get in his car and go.

  He grabbed her hand for an instant, squeezed it once then let it fal
l to her side. “You’ll thank me later,” he said, nodding and smiling at her. “I’ll be able to give you everything you need.”

  Shocked at his continued assumption that they had a relationship, Sara stumbled back onto the sidewalk. “I have to go to the library,” she mumbled and gestured toward the three-story brick building across the street.

  Faking his surprise at how late it was, he glanced at his watch. “Yeah, I’m running a little behind. We’re having our first meeting tonight.”

  Not caring whether he was telling the truth, Sara smiled more forcefully and started across the narrow street. She stopped in the middle, turned to find him staring after her. She waved once while she waited for an oncoming car to pass. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

  Sara finished crossing the street, barely able to keep her feet from breaking into a run as she heard Patrick start the Audi and slowly back out of the parking space. At the library’s entrance, she almost crashed into another student exiting the building. She looked up, an apology on the tip of her tongue, to find angry black eyes glaring down at her. She squinted, tried to see where the man’s pupil ended and his iris began. She couldn’t.

  “This is the out door,” he said.

  The rumble of his voice inside his expansive chest caused Sara’s body to vibrate. She stepped away from the door, her eyes eating him up in a sidelong glance. Starting at the top, she took in his polished ebony hair and creamy golden-brown skin that made her think of a steaming cup of milk chocolate. His lips were a shade lighter than black cherry and were as plump and sensuous as the fruit. His broad chest narrowed at the waist. He was dressed all in black leather that would have been cliché had he not looked so damn hot in it. The leather pants drew her focus to his tight ass and sculpted thighs. She had never seen a man so perfectly packaged or, judging by the scowl on his handsome face, so quick-tempered.

  “That’s not much in the way of an apology,” he growled.

  Her embarrassment at getting caught in the act of ogling him instantly shaded her cheeks red but, almost as quickly, the emotion was replaced with a feeling of annoyance. The desire to call him out as a foul-tempered ogre was surfacing when Colm O’Tethra walked through the 'out' door and rescued the handsome stranger—or her. Looking into the savage depths of the man’s black eyes, she wasn’t sure who was being rescued.

  “You’re not giving the lady a hard time, are you Matt?” Colm asked. Sara felt Colm’s hand cup her elbow, an electric wave short-circuiting its way through her body.

  “Mathias.” The man corrected Colm with a carnivore’s smile, gave one last, hard look at Sara and at Colm’s friendly grip on her arm, then turned on his heel and left.

  As Mathias walked away, Sara felt a sharp tug, felt her body teeter as if she were standing at the edge of an abyss. Her instincts were ordering her to follow Mathias, but Colm gave her elbow a soft squeeze and pulled her closer to him. She turned, his pale blue eyes catching her off-guard with the same flicker of interest her father’s Siamese cat showed when it had a mouse cornered. His gaze dropped to her breasts and she stiffened.

  “I see you received your letter,” Colm said. His voice bordered on disinterested, and Sara relaxed when she realized that she had been protectively clutching her mail, with the club’s distinctive envelope, to her chest under Mathias’s harsh scrutiny.

  “Yes, I did. Thanks.” She stuttered over the words and knew that another embarrassed blush was flushing her skin.

  “Well, you had the recommendation of Professor Ma’at,” Colm said. His eyes still lingered on her full breasts and she felt her nipples harden. “And you were, ah…” he searched for the words and his gaze dropped to Sara’s slim waist before caressing the voluptuous flare of her hips. “…otherwise qualified.”

  Sara bit her lower lip. She had just been caught leering at Mathias. It would hardly be fair for her to chastise Colm for engaging in the same behavior. A shimmer of heat was building between her legs, her mouth puckering thoughtfully as she tried to decide whether the heat was from Mathias or whether she liked the way that Colm was looking at her. She glanced in the direction Mathias had taken, turning back in time to watch Colm’s gaze make a slow trip back up her body until his eyes locked with hers.

  “I have a club meeting I need to go to,” he said.

  The intimacy held in his voice reached out, stroked her thighs, pressed against her crotch until Sara worried that the growing wetness between her thighs would become visible. Her body swayed into contact with his and he brought a hand up to her shoulder to steady her.

  “I’d like to see you tomorrow night, though,” he said, his mouth centimeters from her ear. “You’re free.”

  It wasn’t a question, it was a command and Sara nodded, eyes closed, senses reeling.

  “Good, I’ll see you around eight.” Colm dipped his head and kissed Sara, the briefest pass of his lips over hers as he released her shoulder. He ran a finger through her long auburn locks and added, “Wear something red.”

  Chapter Two

  Watching like a panther concealed among the evergreens that forested Ryesgate University, Mathias saw Colm kiss Sara. A possessive, cold rage washed over him at the other man’s audacity and at the visible thrill it produced in her body, her aura spiking to a pulsing cerise. Colm had been warned not to use his powers to influence Sara during her trials.

  You only want to think I am using my powers to seduce her.

  Mathias snapped upright, sequestered his thoughts and let his anger reach out to squeeze around the edges of Colm’s mind, only to be smugly rebuffed.

  “Your jealousy and desire for the woman only weaken you, Mathias.” Colm joined Mathias among the trees’ shadows. He took one backward glance at Sara as, dazed, she entered the library. “Are you afraid she won’t want you after I’m through with her?”

  Mathias fought to suppress his anger. He could snap Colm like a twig but had too much to lose to risk incurring the League’s displeasure. He knew, too, that Sara ultimately had too much substance to be taken in by Colm’s cheap mind tricks.

  Sara. Mathias pressed one hand to his chest, his fingers toying with a silver locket. Her name was a soothing balm against Colm’s presence. For now, he would hold her name as a talisman, until he could hold her.

  “If you’re done mooning over the bitch?” Colm said and moved from the shadows to the sidewalk. “We have that other matter to take care of.”

  “Burke.” The name dripped from Mathias’s mouth like poison. That League business should require him to deal with that little snake was almost unbearable. Still, if they could use Patrick to obtain a certain lost relic, he would be that much closer to the League’s approval of his turning Sara. Even now, after five years of his pressuring the other League leaders, they still dared to offer the compromise of allowing Sara to be turned, but only by another. Fists clenched tightly, he looked at Colm and wondered at the League’s reasoning in choosing such a reckless creature for the mission.

  “Let’s go,” Mathias growled.

  Colm wore a quiet smirk as they walked to the Ryesgate Museum. Mathias couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to Colm’s little game than the desire to needle an old enemy. Gently he probed Colm’s mind, tried to pry back the layers of defense to reveal the other vampire’s true motivation. Mathias noticed that Colm was sweating, despite the cool breeze that blew across their path. The observation served as a warning that his efforts had not gone undetected. He pushed harder, concentrated to force the information, only to have Colm flash an image of Sara on her stomach, ass held high in the air. Her body was drenched in perspiration and her eyes maddened with desire. Colm, wearing a vicious smile, buried his cock in her pussy, ground against her while he raked his nails down her back.

  At the sight of Sara’s soft flesh opening, Mathias roared, both with his voice and with his mind. The strength of his mental fury lifted Colm off the ground and slammed him face forward onto the sidewalk. Mathias leapt forward and strad
dled him. Flipping Colm over, he noted the bloodied nose and frightened, glazed eyes with satisfaction. He lifted Colm by the front of his shirt and bent down to growl a warning in his ear.

  “Never forget,” Mathias said, his voice stressing the finality of his words, “who you are fucking with!”

  He dropped Colm back to the ground and continued his walk to the museum. Walking in silence, with the serenity of a Buddha, he kept his mind linked with Colm, who was locked in an enraged internal dialogue between his minute store of common sense and his deep hatred for Mathias.

  Who the hell does he think he is? I should kill him for touching me! Or that little bitch of his. Let him live another thirty-five hundred years without her. I don’t care if Athos does want her kept alive. What’s so fucking important about her anyway?

  Mathias stood at the side entrance to the museum, his body rigid at the mention of Athos’s name. He fought to control the concern for Sara that raced through him, feared to question what that fiend could want with her, in case Colm was alerted to Mathias’s continued presence in his mind. Still, the Roman’s involvement was a bad sign. Rumors had been growing that Athos was dissatisfied with the League’s self-imposed restrictions on their kind.

  “Burke’s late,” Colm said and drew a key from his pocket. While Colm’s concentration was centered on the lock, Mathias slowly withdrew, careful not to leave open a door to his own thoughts.

  “I can see that,” Mathias said. He scented the blood on Colm’s shirt, saw the stains. “Leave me the key and I’ll wait for him while you go down and clean up.” He didn’t need the key, had never gotten used to the damn things, but it wouldn’t do to mentally unlock the door with Patrick Burke standing next to him.

  Colm dropped the key into Mathias’s outstretched hand. “So kind of you,” he said, a sneer marring his near perfect features. He walked through the door and threw a silent jab at Mathias. Asshole.