Ett omslag som jag ännu inte hunnit visa er men här kommer det;

Asunder är alltså uppföljaren till Incarnate.
*wrinkles nose* Nej, inte ett omslag som faller mig i smaken. För mig känns det som ett misslyckat försök att efterlikna det första. Men props till de fina färgerna och känslan jag får då jag ser dem.
Vad tycker ni, gillar ni det här omslaget? :)

Jag ska försöka börja med Other words for love - Lorraine Zaao Rosenthal ikväll men vi får se hur det går med den saken. Om jag har tur hinner jag publicera recensionen på Clockwork Prince imorgon men jag lovar som sagt var ingenting men den kommer väl komma upp senast i helgen.
Vad läser ni för tillfället? :)

The fog was thick, muffling sound and sight; where it parted, Will Herondale could see the street rising ahead of him, slick and wet and black with rain, and hear the voices of the dead.
 Not all Shadowhunters could hear ghosts, unless the ghosts chose to be heard, but Will was one of the few who could. As he approached the old cemetry, their voices rose in a ragged musical chorus: wails and pleading, cries and snarls. This was not a peaceful burial ground, but Will knew that; it was not his first visit to the Cross Bones Graveyard near London Bridge. He did hid best to block out the noises, hunching his shoulders so that his collar covered his ears, his head down, a fine mist of rain dampening his black hair. 
 The entrance was halfway down the block: a pair of wrought iron gates set into a high stone wall. Any mundane passing by could see the thick chain that bound the gates shut, and the sign declaring the premises closed - it had been fifteen years since a body was buried here As Will neared the gates, something no mundane would have seen materialized out of the fog: a great bronze knocker in the shape of a hand, the fingers bony and skeletal. With a grimace, Will reached out one of his own gloved hands and lifted the knocker, letting it fall once, twice, three times, the hollow clank resounding through the night like the rattling chains of Marley's ghost. 
 Beyond the gates, mist rose like steam from the ground, obscuring the grave markers and long, uneven plots of earth between them. Slowly the mist began  to coalesce, taking on an eerie blue glow. Will put his hands to the bars of the gate; the cold of the metal seeped through his gloves, into his bones, and he shivered. It was a more than ordinary cold - when ghosts rose, they drew energy from their surroundings, depriving the air and space around them of heat. The hairs of the back of Will's neck prickled and stood up as the blue mist formed slowly into the shape of an old woman in a ragged dress and white apron, her head bent. 
" Hallo, Mol," said Will. "You're looking particularly fine this evening, if I do say so."
The ghost raised her head. Old Molly was a strong spirit, one of the stronger Will had encountered. Even as moonlight speared through a gap in the clouds, she hardly looked transparent: her body was solid, her hair twisted in a thick yellow-gray coil over one shoulder, her rough, red hands braced on her hips. Only her eyes were hollow, twin blue flames flickering in their depths.
"William Herondale," she said. "Back again so soon?"
She moved toward the gate with that gliding motion peculiar to ghosts. Her feet were bare and filthy, despite the fact that they never touched the ground.
Will leaned against the gate. "You know I missed your pretty face."