Passion (Fallen Book 3) Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  THE BESTSELLING SERIES BY LAUREN KATE

  “Bloodsuckers are about to have some competition for the hearts of YA readers.” —The Daily Beast

  “This emotional roller coaster will have you turning the pages nonstop!” —Seventeen.com

  “This series has delivered glorious settings, fast-paced action and a love that transcends death.” —Justine magazine

  “Readers will pine right alongside Luce.” —Publishers Weekly

  “This epic romance is a perfect blend of mystery, intrigue, and celestial imagery with a beautiful, bittersweet ending.” —SLJ

  “Twilight-style success could be in the cards for the fallen-angel saga.” —The Bookseller

  “Compellingly readable … readers will be hooked on Luce’s story.” —VOYA

  “The Southern Gothic atmosphere … is so well crafted that readers can easily picture Luce walking among the marshes and crumbling buildings.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “A tantalizing, atmospheric Gothic romance, Fallen is well worth picking up.” —New York Times bestselling author Melissa Marr

  ALSO BY LAUREN KATE

  THE FALLEN SERIES

  Fallen

  Torment

  Rapture

  Fallen in Love

  Unforgiven

  THE TEARDROP SERIES

  Teardrop

  Waterfall

  The Betrayal of Natalie Hargrove

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

  Text copyright © 2011 by Tinderbox Books, LLC and Lauren Kate

  Cover illustrations copyright © 2011 by Fernanda Brussi Gonçalves

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Ember, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, in 2011.

  Ember and the E colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition of this work as follows:

  Kate, Lauren.

  Passion / Lauren Kate. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Desperate to unlock the curse that condemns her love for Daniel, Luce revisits her past incarnations trying to understand her fate, but Daniel is chasing her throughout the centuries in order to keep her from rewriting their history.

  ISBN 978-0-385-73916-0 (trade) — ISBN 978-0-385-90774-3 (lib. bldg.) — ISBN 978-0-375-89718-4 (ebook)

  [1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Reincarnation—Fiction. 3. Love—Fiction. 4. Angels—Fiction.]

  I. Title. II. Title: Passion.

  PZ7.K15655Pas2011

  [Fic]—dc22

  2011007594

  ISBN 978-0-385-73917-7 (tr. pbk.)

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1_r6

  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.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue: Dark Horse

  One: Under Fire

  Two: Heaven Sent

  Three: Fools Rush In

  Four: Time Wounds All Heels

  Five: Off the Straight Path

  Six: The Woman in White

  Seven: Solstice

  Eight: Watching From the Wings

  Nine: So We Beat On

  Ten: The Depths

  Eleven: Coup De Foudre

  Twelve: The Prisoner

  Thirteen: Star-Crossed

  Fourteen: The Steep Slope

  Fifteen: The Sacrifice

  Sixteen: Best Man

  Seventeen: Written in Bone

  Eighteen: Bad Directions

  Nineteen: The Mortal Coil

  Twenty: Journey’s End

  Epilogue: No More But This

  Excerpt from Unforgiven

  About the Author

  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? T
ough 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.

  And a girl, about nineteen, with a white-blond ponytail, brown trench coat, and thick, dark sunglasses, walked slowly up the aluminum steps toward the Elders.

  Sophia stiffened. Why would she be here?

  It was next to impossible to tell which direction the girl was looking in, and Sophia was trying hard not to stare. Not that it would matter; the girl wouldn’t be able to see her. She was blind. But then—

  The Outcast nodded once at Sophia. Oh yes—these fools could see the burning of a person’s soul. It was dim, but Sophia’s life force must still have been visible.

  The girl took a seat in the empty row in front of the Elders, facing the track and flipping though a five-dollar tip sheet her blind eyes wouldn’t be able to read.

  “Hello.” The Outcast’s voice was a monotone. She didn’t turn around.

  “I really don’t know why you’re here,” Miss Sophia said. It was a damp November day in Kentucky, but a sheen of sweat had broken out across her forehead. “Our collaboration ended when your cohorts failed to retrieve the girl. No amount of bitter blabber from the one who calls himself Phillip will change our minds.” Sophia leaned forward, closer to the girl, and wrinkled her nose. “Everyone knows the Outcasts aren’t to be trusted—”

  “We are not here on business with you,” the Outcast said, staring straight ahead. “You were but a vessel to get us closer to Lucinda. We remain uninterested in ‘collaborating’ with you.”

  “No one cares about your organization these days.” Footsteps on the bleachers.

  The boy was tall and slender, with a shaven head and a trench coat to match the girl’s. His sunglasses were the cheap plastic variety found near the batteries at the drugstore.

  Phillip slid onto the bleacher right next to Lyrica Crisp. Like the Outcast girl, he didn’t turn to face them when he spoke.

  “I’m not surprised to find you here, Sophia.” He lowered his sunglasses on his nose, revealing two empty white eyes. “Just disappointed that you didn’t feel you could tell me that you’d been invited as well.”

  Lyrica gasped at the horrible white expanses behind his glasses. Even Vivina lost her cool and reared back. Sophia boiled inside.

  The Outcast girl raised a golden card—the same invitation Sophia had received—scissored between her fingers. “We received this.” Only, this one looked like it had been written in Braille. Sophia reached for it to make sure, but with a quick movement, the invitation disappeared back inside the girl’s trench coat.

  “Look, you little punks. I branded your starshots with the emblem of the Elders. You work for me—”

  “Correction,” Phillip said. “The Outcasts work for no one but themselves.”

  Sophia watched him crane his neck slightly, pretending to follow a horse around the track. She’d always thought it was eerie, the way they gave off the impression that they could see. When everyone knew he’d struck the lot of them blind with the flick of a finger.

  “Shame you did such a poor job capturing her.” Sophia felt her voice rise higher than she knew it should, drawing the eyes of an older couple crossing the grandstand. “We were supposed to work together,” she hissed, “to hunt her down, and—and you failed.”

  “It would not have mattered one way or another.”

  “Come again?”

  “She would still be lost in time. It was always her destiny. And the Elders would still be hanging on by a thread. That is yours.”

  She wanted to lunge at him, wanted to strangle him until those great white eyes bulged from their sockets. Her dagger felt like it was burning a hole through the calfskin handbag on her lap. If only it had been a starshot. Sophia was rising from the bleacher when the voice came from behind them.

  “Please be seated,” it boomed. “This meeting is now called to order.”

  The voice. She knew at once whose it was. Calm and authoritative. Utterly humbling. It made the bleachers quake.

  The nearby mortals noticed nothing, but a flush of heat rose on the back of Sophia’s neck. It trickled through her body, numbing her. This was no ordinary fear. This was a crippling, stomach-souring terror. Did she dare to turn around?

  The subtlest peek from the corner of her eye revealed a man in a tailored black suit. His dark hair was clipped short under his black hat. The face, kind and attractive, was not particularly memorable. Clean-shaven, straight-nosed, with brown eyes that felt familiar. Yet Miss Sophia had never seen him before. And still she knew who he was, knew it in the marrow of her bones.

  “Where is Cam?” the voice behind them asked. “He was sent an invitation.”

  “Probably playing God inside the Announcers. Like the rest of them,” Lyrica blurted out. Sophia swatted her.

  “Playing God, did you say?”

  Sophia searched for the words that would fix a gaffe like that. “Several of the others followed Lucinda backward into time,” she said eventually. “Including two Nephilim. We aren’t sure how many others.”

  “Dare I ask,” the voice said, suddenly ice-cold, “why none of you elected to go after her?”

  Sophia fought to swallow, to breathe. Her most intuitive movements were stunted by panic. “We can’t exactly, well … We don’t yet have the capabilities to—”

  The Outcast girl cut her off. “The Outcasts are in the process of—”

  “Silence,” the voice commanded. “Spare me your excuses. They no longer matter, as you
no longer matter.”

  For a long time, their group was quiet. It was terrifying not to know how to please him. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, but no less lethal. “Too much at stake. I can’t leave anything else to chance.”

  A pause.

  Then, softly, he said, “The time has come for me to take matters into my own hands.”

  Sophia bit her gasp in two to hide her horror. But she could not stop her body’s tremors. His direct involvement? Truly, it was the most terrifying prospect. She could not imagine working with him to—

  “The rest of you will stay out of this,” he said. “That is all.”

  “But—” It was an accident, but the word escaped Sophia’s lips. She could not take it back. But all her decades of labor. All her plans. Her plans!

  What came next was a long, earth-shattering roar.

  It reverberated up through the bleachers, seeming to travel around the entire racetrack in a splinter of a second.

  Sophia cringed. The noise seemed almost to crash into her, through her skin and down to her deepest core. She felt as if her heart was being drummed to pieces.

  Lyrica and Vivina both pressed against her, eyes clamped shut. Even the Outcasts trembled.

  Just when Sophia thought the sound of it would never cease, that it would be the death of her at last, his roar gave way to absolute pin-drop silence.

  For a moment.

  Enough time to look around and see that the other people at the racetrack had not heard anything at all.

  In her ear he whispered, “Your time on this endeavor is up. Do not dare to get in my way.”

  Down below, another shot rang out. The broad gate banged open once again. Only this time, the pounding of horses’ hooves against the dirt sounded like practically nothing, like the lightest rainfall falling on a canopy of trees.

  Before the racehorses had crossed the starting line, the figure behind them had vanished, leaving only the mark of coal-black hoofprints singed into the planks of the grandstand.