Passion

Passion (The third book in the Fallen series) A novel by Lauren Kate

FOR M AND T,

HEAVEN-SENT MESSENGERS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Impassioned thanks to Wendy Loggia, who envisioned this crazy book and whose sane support carries the series. To Beverly Horowitz, for her wisdom and style. To Michael Stearns and Ted Malawer, for making things soar. To Noreen Herits and Roshan Nozari: my gratitude for all you do deepens with each book. Special thanks to Krista Vitola, Barbara Perris, Angela Carlino, Judith Haut (I’ll meet you at the Cheese Dip Festival in Little Rock)—and to Chip Gibson, whose trickle-down Chipenomics explains why everyone at Random House is so damn cool.

To the friends I’ve made around the world: Becky Stradwick and Lauren Bennett (fellow Lauren Kate!) in the UK, to Rino Balatbat and the folks at National Book Store in the Philippines, to the whole enthusiastic team at Random House Australia, to bloggers near and far. I’m honored to work with every one of you.

To my tremendous, loving family, with a special materteral shout-out to Jordan, Hailey, and David Franklin. To Anna Carey for the hikes and more. To the OBLC, whoop. And to Jason, my muse, my world, it just gets better all the time.

Failing to catch me at first keep encouraged,

Missing me one place search another,

I stop somewhere waiting for you.

—WALT WHITMAN, Song of Myself

PROLOGUE DARK HORSE

LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY • NOVEMBER 27, 2009

A shot rang out. A broad gate banged open. A pounding of horses’ hooves echoed around the track like a massive clap of thunder.

“And they’re off!”

Sophia Bliss adjusted the wide brim of her feathered hat. It was a muted shade of mauve, twenty-seven inches in diameter, with a drop-down chiffon veil. Large enough to make her look like a proper horseracing enthusiast, not so gaudy as to attract undue attention.

Three hats had been special-ordered from the same milliner in Hilton Head for the race that day. One—a butter-yellow bonnet—capped the snow-white head of Lyrica Crisp, who was sitting to the left of Miss Sophia, enjoying a corned beef sandwich. The other—a sea-foam-green felt hat with a fat polka-dotted satin ribbon— crowned the jet-black mane of Vivina Sole, who sat looking deceptively demure with her white-gloved hands crossed over her lap to Miss Sophia’s right.

“Glorious day for a race,” Lyrica said. At 136 years old, she was the youngest of the Elders of Zhsmaelim. She wiped a dot of mustard from the corner of her mouth. “Can you believe it’s my first time at the tracks?”

“Shhh,” Sophia hissed. Lyrica was such a twit. Today was not about horses at all, but rather a clandestine meeting of great minds. So what if the other great minds didn’t happen to have shown up yet? They would be here. At this perfectly neutral location set forth in the gold letterpress invitation Sophia had received from an unknown sender. The others would be here to reveal themselves and come up with a plan of attack together. Any minute now. She hoped.

“Lovely day, lovely sport,” Vivina said dryly. “Pity our horse in this race doesn’t run in easy circles like these fillies. Isn’t it, Sophia? Tough to wager where the thoroughbred Lucinda will finish.”

“I said shhh,” Sophia whispered. “Bite your cavalier tongue. There are spies everywhere.”

“You’re paranoid,” Vivina said, drawing a high giggle from Lyrica.

“I’m what’s left,” Sophia said.

There used to be so many more—twenty-four Elders at the peak of the Zhsmaelim. A cluster of mortals, immortals, and a few transeternals, like Sophia herself. An axis of knowledge and passion and faith with a single uniting goal: to restore the world to its prelapsarian state, that brief, glorious moment before the angels’ Fall. For better or for worse.

It was written, plain as day, in the code they’d drawn up together and had each signed: For better or for worse.

Because really, it could go either way.

Every coin had two sides. Heads and tails. Light and dark. Good and—

Well, the fact that the other Elders hadn’t prepared themselves for both options was not Sophia’s fault. It was, however, her cross to bear when one by one they sent in notices of their withdrawal. Your purposes grow too dark. Or: The organization’s standards have fallen. Or: The Elders have strayed too far from the original code. The first flurry of letters arrived, predictably, within a week after the incident with the girl Pennyweather. They couldn’t abide it, they’d claimed, the death of one small insignificant child. One careless moment with a dagger and suddenly the Elders were running scared, all of them fearing the wrath of the Scale.

Cowards.

Sophia did not fear the Scale. Their charge was to parole the fallen, not the righteous. Groundling angels such as Roland Sparks and Arriane Alter. As long as one did not defect from Heaven, one was free to sway a little. Desperate times practically begged for it. Sophia had nearly gone cross-eyed reading the spongy-hearted excuses of the other Elders. But even if she had wanted the defectors back—which she had not— there was nothing to be done.

Sophia Bliss—the school librarian who had only ever served as secretary on the Zhsmaelim board—was now the highest-ranking official among the Elders. There were just twelve of them left. And nine could not be trusted.

So that left the three of them here today in their enormous pastel hats, placing phony bets at the track. And waiting. It was pathetic, the depths to which they’d sunk.

A race came to its end. A staticky loudspeaker announced the winners and the odds for the next race. Well- heeled people and drunks all around them cheered or slumped lower in their seats.