A Darker Shade of Magic (Darker Shade of Magic, Book 1) by V. E. Schwab

By V. E. Schwab

From V.E. Schwab, the significantly acclaimed writer of Vicious, comes a brand new universe of bold experience, exciting energy, and parallel Londons, starting with A Darker color of Magic.

Kell is without doubt one of the final Travelers—magicians with an extraordinary, coveted skill to go back and forth among parallel universes—as such, he can decide upon the place he lands.

There's gray London, soiled and dull, with none magic, governed by means of a mad King George. Then there's pink London, the place lifestyles and magic are respected, and the Maresh Dynasty presides over a flourishing empire. White London, governed by means of whoever has murdered their strategy to the throne—a position the place humans struggle to manage magic, and the magic fights again, draining town to its very bones. And as soon as upon a time, there has been Black London... yet not anyone speaks of that now.

Officially, Kell is the pink traveller, own ambassador and followed Prince of pink London, wearing the per month correspondences among the royals of every London. Unofficially, Kell is a smuggler, servicing humans prepared to pay for even the smallest glimpses of a global they'll by no means see—a risky pastime, and person who has set him up for unintended treason. Fleeing into gray London, Kell runs afoul of Delilah Bard, a cut-purse with lofty aspirations, first robs him, then saves him from a deadly enemy, after which forces him to spirit her to a different international for a formal adventure.

But perilous magic is afoot, and treachery lurks at each flip. to avoid wasting the entire worlds, Kell and Lila will first have to remain alive—and that's proving trickier than they was hoping.

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Bohme was looking at him strangely. Metzger had seen enough blood shed in hate to know that the things seen in the eyes of others were reflections of the things that burned in your own eyes. They were not secret glimpses of the other man, they were the hidden truths of the self. There had been fear in Bohme’s eyes, Metzger’s fear. The cries of the ravens rose, mad caws that spiralled, taking on an almost human quality. It took him a moment to realise what he was hearing within them: the wretched sobs of a baby.

It wasn’t weighted to be thrown, but that didn’t matter. It missed the laughing man’s face by inches and slammed into his shoulder, cutting off his laughter in a choke of pain. It wasn’t enough. And he wasn’t ready to die. Kaspar waited for the killing blow but it never came. He struggled to roll over, to face his own death, to look it in the bogged eye. He slumped onto his back, gasping through clenched teeth as another wave of agony surged through him, from the wounded knee up through his chest.

Kaspar turned through a full circle, not sure what he was looking for, or what the sound he thought he heard meant. There it was again: a long slow creaking, of wood straining. Then the forest floor began to rise up beneath his feet. The deadfall stirred, the soil and the broken branches coming together, leaves and mud and grass and worms giving flesh to a fell beast clawing its way into existence. The head came first, broaching the earth in a vile parody of birth, forcing its way out of the ground.

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