A Darker Shade of Magic (Shades of Magic, #1)

by V.E. Schwab

he shoved his blood-streaked hand into his pocket before the rich red sight of it gave anyone ideas.

At home, Kell masked his power. Here he knew better. He let his magic fill the air, and the starving air ate it up, warming against his skin, wicking off in tendrils of fog. It was a fine line to walk. He had to show his strength while still holding fast to it. Too little, and he’d be seen as prey. Too much, and he’d be seen as a prize.

In theory, the people of the city knew Kell, or of him, and knew that he was under the protection of the white crown. And in theory, no one would be foolish enough to defy the Dane twins. But hunger—for energy, for life—did things to people. Made them do things.

The city changed at night. The quiet—an unnatural, heavy, held-breath kind of silence—broke and gave way to noise, sounds of laughter, of passion—some thought it a way to summon power—but mostly those of fighting, and killing. A city of extremes. Thrilling, maybe, but deadly. The streets would have been stained dark with blood long ago if the cutthroats didn’t drink it all.

Their clothes had the same faded quality as the rest of the city. So did their hair, their eyes, and their skin, the surface of which was covered in markings. Brands and scars, mutilations meant to bind what magic they could summon to their bodies. The weaker they were, the more scars they made on themselves, ruining their flesh in a frantic attempt to hold on to what little power they had.

Magic did not come willingly here. The language of elements had been abandoned when they ceased to listen (the only element that could be summoned was a perverted kind of energy, a bastard of fire and something darker, corrupted). What magic could be had was taken, forced into shape by amulets and spells and bindings. It was never enough, never filling.

The power of the Sijlt—even in its half-frozen state—tethered them to the city, its magic the only remaining flicker of warmth.

Kell wondered if the people of White London truly believed that Astrid and Athos Dane were strong enough, or if they were simply waiting for the next magician to rise up and overthrow them. Which someone would, eventually. Someone always did.

The infamous Krös Mejkt, the “Stone Forest,” was made up not of trees but of statues, all of them people. It was rumored the figures hadn’t always been stone, that the forest was actually a graveyard, kept by the Danes to commemorate those they killed, and remind any who passed through the outer wall of what happened to traitors in the twins’ London.

Ten guards flanked the stairs of the fortress, still as the statues in the forest. They were nothing but puppets, stripped by King Athos of everything but the breath in their lungs and the blood in their veins and his order in their ears. The sight of them made Kell shiver. In Red London, using magic to control, possess, or bind the body and mind of another person was forbidden.

Holland. The Antari’s skin was nearly colorless, and charcoal hair swept across his forehead, ending just above his eyes. One of them was a greyish green, but the other was glossy and black. And when that eye met Kell’s, it felt like two stones sparking against each other.

He couldn’t understand why Holland—arguably the most powerful person in the city, and perhaps the world—would serve a pair of glorified cutthroats like Astrid and Athos. Kell had himself been to the city a handful of times before the last king fell, and he had seen Holland at the ruler’s side, but as an ally, not a servant. He had been different then, younger and more arrogant, yes, but there was also something else, something more, a light in his eyes. A fire. And then, between one visit and the next, the fire was gone, and so was the king, replaced by the Danes. Holland was still there, at their side as if nothing had changed. But he had changed, gone cold and dark, and Kell wanted to know what had happened—what had really happened.

Holland was Antari in a world where power meant everything. He should have been the obvious victor. Still, the Dane twins proved nearly as powerful as they were ruthless and cunning. And together, they defeated him. But they didn’t kill him. Instead, they bound him.

“It’s that clasp,” said the man in the Scorched Bone, tapping his chest. “The silver circle.” It was a binding spell, he explained. And a dark one at that. Made by Athos himself. The king had an unnatural gift for controlling others—but the seal didn’t make Holland a mindless slave, like the guards that lined the castle halls. It didn’t make him think or feel or want. It only made him do.

He felt Holland slip away, but did not turn his attention from the throne, or the woman sitting on it. Astrid Dane would have blended right in, if it weren’t for her veins. They stood out like dark threads on her hands and at her temples; the rest of her was a study in white. So many tried to hide the fact they were fading, covering their skin or painting it up to look healthier. The queen of White London did not. Her long colorless hair was woven back into a braid, and her porcelain skin bled straight into the edges of her tunic.

Astrid Dane was a serpent, slow only until she chose to strike.

“Come closer,” she said. “Let me see how you’ve grown.” “I’ve been grown for some time,” said Kell. She drew a nail down the arm of the throne. “Yet you do not fade.” “Not yet,” he said, managing a guarded smile.

The Antari’s eyes slid over the scene—the blood, the ink, the tortured commoner—his expression lodged between distant surprise and disinterest. As if the sight meant nothing to him. Which was a lie. Holland liked to play at being hollow, but Athos knew it was a ruse. He might have feigned numbness, but he was hardly immune to sensation. To pain.

Holland nodded, but before he could turn to go, Athos brought a hand to his cheek. Holland did not pull away, did not even stiffen under the king’s touch. “Jealous?” he asked. Holland’s two-toned eyes held Athos’s, the green and the black both steady, unblinking. “He suffered,” added Athos softly. “But not like you.” He brought his mouth closer. “No one suffers as beautifully as you.” There it was, in the corner of Holland’s mouth, the crease of his eye. Anger. Pain. Defiance. Athos smiled, victorious.

Meanwhile, the Danes shared their cup, Holland’s blood turning their lips a vibrant red as they drank. Power lies in the blood, thought Kell as his own began to warm.

“My family,” said the woman, reading the question in his eyes. “Ages ago, when Black London fell, and the doors were sealed, we were divided. Over the centuries our families have tried to keep the thread … but I’m the only one left. Everyone here is dead but myself, and everyone there is dead but one. Olivar. He’s the only family I have and he’s on that side of the door and he’s dying and I just want…” She brought the letter to her chest. “We are all that’s left.”

“The other Antari,”

“Holland. He brought me a letter.”

This is the last and only letter. Please.”

“But it’s enough, I swear. It must be.” Her hands slipped away. “It’s all I can give.”

He stared down at the letter and the payment, whatever it was.

drew his knife across his arm, trying to ignore the dread that welled with his blood as he summoned the door home.

He’d been set up, but by who? And for what? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he needed to, and so he dragged the stolen parcel from his pocket. It was wrapped in a swatch of faded grey fabric, and when he unfolded the cloth, a rough-cut stone tumbled out into his palm.

It was small enough to nest in a closed fist, and as black as Kell’s right eye, and it sang in his hand, a low, deep vibration that called on his own power like a tuning fork. Like to like. Resonating. Amplifying. His pulse quickened. Part of him wanted to drop the stone. The other part wanted to grip it tighter.

He’d never seen the stone before, but he recognized the mark. It was written in a language few could speak and fewer still could use. A language that ran through his veins with his blood and pulsed in his black eye. A language he had come to think of simply as Antari. But the language of magic hadn’t always belonged to Antari alone. No, there were stories. Of a time when others could speak directly to magic (even if they couldn’t command it by blood). Of a world so bonded to power that every man, woman, and child became fluent in its tongue. Black London. The language of magic had belonged to them.

“It’s a word,” explained Tieren. “One that belongs to every world and none. It is the word for ‘magic.’ It refers to its existence, and its creation.…” Tieren brought a finger to the rune. “If magic had a name, it would be this,” he said, tracing the symbol’s lines. “Vitari.”

Someone had set him up. Someone wanted him to bring a forbidden relic out of White London and into his city.

It was the blade wielded by members of the royal guard. And only by them.

A compulsion spell?

Ghost boy did it to prince boys guards when he gave the mysterious gift.

He spun the dagger in his hand, took it by the tip, and threw as hard as he could. The blade found its mark, and buried itself in the cutthroat’s shoulder. But to Kell’s horror, the man didn’t drop his weapon. He kept coming. Pain didn’t even register on his face as he pulled the knife free and cast it aside.

Kell stared down at the stone still thrumming in his hand, at the glowing symbol on its face. Vitari. It is the word for magic. It refers to its existence, and its creation. Could it also mean the act of creating?

But Kell hadn’t envisioned the frozen shell, which meant the stone didn’t simply follow an order. It interpreted. It created. Was this the way magic had worked in Black London? Without walls, without rules, without anything but want and will?

He tipped his head back and stared up at the Grey London sky, starless and bleak over the tops of the buildings. And then he reached into his pocket for the Black London stone, and froze. It wasn’t there. He dug furiously through his pockets, every one of them, but it was no good. The talisman was gone. Breathless and bleeding and exhausted, Kell looked down at the kerchief clutched in his hand. He couldn’t believe it. He’d been robbed.

No, this shell broke apart and yet never let go of the man beneath. Instead, it clung to him as it melted, not down his body, but into it. Seeping in through his clothes and his skin until it was gone—or not gone. Absorbed.

the last shimmering drops of magic glistened like oil on his skin before sinking in, the veins darkening, tracing over him like ink. The man’s head hung forward, eyes open, but empty. And fully black, pupils blown and spreading through irises and into whites.

The compulsion spell already cast on him had stripped the man’s resistance and allowed the other magic to slip right in, through vein and brain and muscle, taking hold of everything it touched, the once-red core of life now burning pure and dark.

Slowly, the man—or rather now, the thing inside him—lifted his head. His black eyes shone, slick against the dry dark as he surveyed the alley. The body of the second cutthroat lay nearby, but he was already quite dead, the light snuffed out. Nothing to salvage. Nothing to burn. There wasn’t much life le...

The only roundness came from her eyes, both brown, but not quite the same shade. He opened his mouth, intending to start their conversation with a question, like, Will you untie me? or Where is the stone? but instead found himself saying, “One of your eyes is lighter than the other.”

The black sword glowed with a dark internal light, and then began to dissolve. The gleaming weapon melted, not down, but in. Through the wound, and into Booth’s body. Into his blood. His heartbeat faltered and then redoubled, steady and strong in his veins as the magic spread. His body shuddered, then stilled.

And then, slowly, his arms slipped to his sides, the veins running over them now a true black. The color of true magic. His head drifted up, and he blinked two black eyes and looked around, then down at himself, considering his form. He flexed his fingers, carefully, testing.

Even in the Barren Tide, whose belly filled each night with a motley crew, the man seemed out of place. In the low light of the pub, he looked strangely … faded. His clothes were dark grey, and he wore a simple short cloak held by a silver clasp.

A chill ran through her. He was the same as Kell, and yet entirely different. Looking into Kell’s eye had been like looking through a window into a new world. Strange and confusing, but not frightening. Looking into Holland’s eye made her skin crawl. Dark things swirled just beneath the smooth black depths. One word whispered through her mind. Run.

The stone hung heavy in his pocket. No, it wasn’t his. But it wasn’t Holland’s, either. And it certainly didn’t belong to the White throne. Had the power-hungry Danes possessed the talisman, they never would have relinquished it, let alone sent it away. But who would? Who did?

The first thing about magic that you have to understand, Lila, is that it is not inanimate. It is alive. Alive in a different way than you or I, but still very much alive.”

But how? It wasn’t like other relics. It wasn’t a thing to be tossed in a fire or crushed beneath an ax. It looked as though someone had tried, but the broken edge did not seem to diminish its function, which meant that even if he did succeed in shattering it, it might only make more pieces, rendering every shard its own weapon. It was no mere token; the stone had a life—and a will—of its own, and had shown so more than once. Only strong magic would be able to unmake such a thing, but as the talisman was magic itself, he doubted that magic could ever be made to destroy it. Kell’s head ached with the realization that it could not be ruined—it had to be disposed of. Sent away, somewhere it could do no damage. And there was only one place it would be safe, and everyone safe from it. Kell knew what he had to do. Some part of him had known since the moment the stone had passed into his hands. “It belongs in Black London,” he said. “I have to take it back.”