A Darker Shade of Magic (Shades of Magic #1) - V.E Schwab Page 0,79
wiped the ash on his pant leg and wandered off down the street.
II
Kell and Lila made their way to the docks, invisible to passersby. But not only invisible. Intangible. Just as the ash had passed through them at the ruined inn, and Kell’s hand through Lila’s shoulder, so did the people on the street. They could neither feel nor hear them. It was as if, beneath the veil, Kell and Lila were not part of the world around them. As if they existed outside of it. And just as the world could not touch them, they could not touch the world. When Lila absently tried to pocket an apple from a cart, her hand went through the fruit as sure as the fruit went through her hand. They were as ghosts in the bustling city.
This was strong magic, even in a London rich with power. The stone’s energy thrummed through Kell, twining with his own like a second pulse. A voice in the back of his head warned him against the thing coursing through his body, but he pushed the voice away. For the first time since he’d been wounded, Kell didn’t feel dizzy and weak, and he clung to the strength as much as to the stone itself as he led Lila toward the docks.
She’d been quiet since they left the remains of the inn, holding on to Kell with one hand and the timepiece with the other. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and sharp.
“Before you go thinking Barron and I were blood, we weren’t,” she said as they walked side by side. “He wasn’t my family. Not really.” The words rang stiff and hollow, and the way she clenched her jaw and rubbed her eyes (when she thought he wasn’t looking) told another story. But Kell let Lila keep her lie.
“Do you have any?” he asked, remembering her biting remarks about his situation with the crown. “Family, that is?”
Lila shook her head. “Mum’s been dead since I was ten.”
“No father?”
Lila gave a small humorless laugh. “My father.” She said it like it was a bad word. “The last time I saw him, he tried to sell my flesh to pay his tab.”
“I’m sorry,” said Kell.
“Don’t be,” said Lila, managing the sharp edge of a smile. “I cut the man’s throat before he could get his belt off.” Kell tensed. “I was fifteen,” she went on casually. “I remember wondering at the amount of blood, the way it kept spilling out of him. …”
“First time you killed someone?” asked Kell.
“Indeed,” she said, her smile turning rueful. “But I suppose the nice thing about killing is that it gets easier.”
Kell’s brow furrowed. “It shouldn’t.”
Lila’s eyes flicked up to his. “Have you ever killed anyone?” she asked.
Kell’s frown deepened. “Yes.”
“And?”
“And what?” he challenged. He expected her to ask who or where or when or how. But she didn’t. She asked why.
“Because I had no choice,” he said.
“Did you enjoy it?” she asked.
“Of course not.”
“I did.” There was a streak of bitterness woven through the admission. “I mean, I didn’t enjoy the blood, or the gurgling sound he made as he died, or the way the body looked when it was over. Empty. But the moment I decided to do it, and the moment after that when the knife bit in and I knew that I’d done it, I felt”—Lila searched for the words—“powerful.” She considered Kell then. “Is that what magic feels like?” she asked honestly.
Maybe in White London, thought Kell, where power was held like a knife, a weapon to be used against those in your way.
“No,” he said. “That’s not magic, Lila. That’s just murder. Magic is …” But he trailed off, distracted by the nearest scrying board, which had suddenly gone dark.
Up and down the streets, the black notice boards affixed to lampposts and storefronts went blank. Kell slowed. All morning they had been running notices of Rhy’s celebrations, a cycling itinerary of the day’s—and week’s—parades and public feasts, festivals and private dances. When the boards first went dark, Kell assumed that they were simply changing over stories. But then they all began to flash the same alarming message. A single word:
MISSING
The letters flashed, bold and white, at the top of every board, and beneath it, a picture of Kell. Red hair and black eye and silver-buttoned coat. The image moved faintly, but didn’t smile, only stared out at the world. A second word wrote itself beneath the portrait: