Quotes by V.E. Schwab

Magic gave so much to Man, and Man so much to Magic, that their edges blurred, and their threads all tangled, and now they cant be pulled apart. Theyre bound together, you see, life to life. Halves of a whole. If anyone tried to part them, theyd both unravel.

She used to think that if she stole enough, the want would fade, the hunger would go away, but maybe it wasn’t that simple. Maybe it wasn’t a matter of what she didn’t have, of what she wasn’t, but what she was.

Everyones immortal until theyre not.

We still have time, Kell assured him, getting to his feet.How do you know? asked Hastra. We cant hear the bells down here, and there are no windows to gauge the light. Magic, Kell said, and then, when Hastras eyes widened, he gestured to the hourglass sitting on the table with his other tools. And that.

Magic was a truly beautiful disease.

Kell tipped his head so that his copper hair tumbled out of his eyes, revealing not only the crisp blue of the left one but the solid black of the right. A black that ran edge to edge, filling white and iris both. There was nothing human about that eye. It was pure magic. The mark of the blood magician.

Are you ready ? she asked, spinning the chamber.Kell gazed through the gate at the waiting castle. No.At that, she offered him the sharpest edge of a grin. Good, she said. The ones who think theyre ready always end up dead.

No one suffers as beautifully as you do.

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 Hollands mouth, the crease of his eye. Anger. Pain. Defiance. Athos smiled, victorious.

Because Rhy didn’t need his protection, not anymore, and he’d only told a partial truth when he said they both needed this.The whole truth was, Rhy needed it more.Because Kell had given him a gift he did not want, could never repay.He’d always envied his brother ’s strength.And now, in a horrible way, it was his.He was immortal.And he hated it.And he hated that he hated it. Hated that he’d become the thing he never wanted to be, a burden to his brother, a source of pain and suffering, a prison. Hated that if he’d had a choice, he would have said no. Hated that he was grateful he hadn’t had a choice, because he wanted to live, even if he didn’t deserve to.But most of all, Rhy hated the way his living changed how Kell lived, the way his brother moved through life as if it were suddenly fragile. The black stone, and whatever lived inside it, and for a time in Kell, had changed his brother, woken something restless, something reckless. Rhy wanted to shout, to shake Kell and tell him not to shy away from danger on his account, but charge toward it, even if it meant getting hurt.Because Rhy deserved that pain.He could see his brother suffocating beneath the weight of it. Of him.And he hated it.And this gesture—this foolish, mad, dangerous gesture—was the best he could do.The most he could do.

Lila cringed at the ghost of Barrons words, a memory with edges still too sharp to touch.

After all, if you run far enough, no one can catch you.

Lila backed away toward the curtain. Do you just... stand here until I need you?The woman smiled and dug a volume from a pocket. I have a book.Let me guess, a religious text?Actually, said Ister, perching on the low couch, its about pirates.Lila smiled.

A wiry crewman named Kobis sat at the end of a couch, reading a book in the low light, clearly relishing the closest thing he ever found to peace and quiet

Sydney, look at me. He rested his hands on the car roof and leaned in. No one is going to hurt you. Do you know why? She shook her head, and Victor smiled. Because Ill hurt them first.

Myths do not happen all at once. They do not spring forth whole into the world. They form slowly, rolled between the hands of time until their edges smooth, until the saying of the story gives enough weight to the words—to the memories—to keep them rolling on their own. But all stories start somewhere, and that night, as Rhy Maresh walked through the streets of London, a new myth was taking shape.

She handed back the cigar and dug the silver watch out of her vest pocket. It was warm and smooth, and she didnt know why she liked it so much, but she did. Maybe because it was a choice. Taking it had been a choice. Keeping it had been one, too. And maybe the choice started as a random one, but there was something to it.

Some people steal to stay alive, and some steal to feel alive. Simple as that.

Crime isnt that complicated. People steal because taking something gives them something. If theyre not in it for the money, theyre in it for control. The act of taking, of breaking the rules, makes them feel powerful. Theyre in it for the sheer defiance. Some people steal to stay alive, and some steal to feel alive.

Crime isnt that complicated. People steal because taking something gives them something. If theyre not in it for the money, theyre in it for the control. The act of taking, breaking the rules, makes them feel powerful. Theyre in it for the sheer defiance.