Misurate il vostro livello d’inglese
Rieccomi a voi con nuovi consigli per iniziare a leggere in inglese.
Sempre più persone tra voi vogliono tentare ad iniziare a leggere in lingua originale e io sono qui per aiutarvi.
Se riuscirete vi si schiuderanno, migliaia di libri scontatissimi e milioni di nuovi autori. Cosa state aspettando?
Potete trovare i primi consigli per iniziare nella barra laterale sinistra del blog.
Oggi invece voglio aiutarvi a misurare il vostro livello di inglese, Questo vi sarà utile per scegliere con che libri iniziare. Infatti comprare un libro comporta una spesa e sarebbe brutto spndere per un libro per poi scoprire di non saperlo leggere.
Vi proporrò tre piccoli estratti da tre libri di livelli diversi di difficoltà. Provate a leggerli. L’estratto di cui capirete il senso generale (non importa che capiate tutte le parole), corrisponderà al vostro livello.
LIVELLO 1
ESTRATTO DAL LIBRO “SHADOWLAND” DI MEG CABOT
They told me there’d be palm trees.
I didn’t believe them, but that’s what they told me. They told me I’d be able to see them from the plane.
Oh, I know they have palm trees in Southern California. I mean, I’m not a complete moron. I’ve watched 90210 , and everything. But I was moving to Northern California. I didn’t expect to see palm trees in Northern California. Not after my mom told me not to give away all my sweaters.
”Oh, no,” my mom had said. “You’ll need them. Your coats, too. It can get cold there. Not as cold as New York, maybe, but pretty chilly.”
Which was why I wore my black leather motorcycle jacket on the plane. I could have shipped it, I guess, with the rest of my stuff, but it kind of made me feel better to wear it.
So there I was, sitting on the plane in a black leather motorcycle jacket, seeing these palm trees through the window as we landed. And I thought, Great. Black leather and palm trees. Already I’m fitting in, just like I knew I would …
…Not.
My mom isn’t particularly fond of my leather jacket, but I swear I didn’t wear it to make her mad, or anything. I’m not resentful of the fact that she decided to marry a guy who lives three thousand miles away, forcing me to leave school in the middle of my sophomore year; abandon the best – and pretty much only – friend I’ve had since kindergarten; leave the city I’ve been living in for all of my sixteen years.
Oh, no. I’m not a bit resentful.
The thing is, I really do like Andy, my new stepdad. He’s good for my mom. He makes her happy. And he’s very nice to me.
It’s just this moving to California thing that bugs me.
Oh, and did I mention Andy’s three other kids?
They were all there to greet me when I got off the plane. My mom, Andy, and Andy’s three sons. Sleepy, Dopey, and Doc, I call them. They’re my new stepbrothers.
”Suze!” Even if I hadn’t heard my mom squealing my name as I walked through the gate, I wouldn’t have missed them – my new family. Andy was making his two youngest boys hold up this big sign that saidWelcome Home, Susannah! Everybody getting off my flight was walking by it, going “Aw, look how cute,” to their travel companions, and smiling at me in this sickening way.
Oh, yeah. I’m fitting in. I’m fitting in just great.
”Okay,” I said, walking up to my new family fast. “You can put the sign down now.”
But my mom was too busy hugging me to pay any attention. “Oh, Suzie!” she kept saying. I hate when anybody but my mom calls me Suzie, so I shot the boys this mean look over her shoulder, just in case they were getting any big ideas. They just kept grinning at me from over the stupid sign, Dopey because he’s too dumb to know any better, Doc because – well, I guess because he might have been glad to see me. Doc’s weird that way. Sleepy, the oldest, just stood there, looking … well, sleepy.
”How was your flight, kiddo?” Andy took my bag off my shoulder, and put it on his own. He seemed surprised by how heavy it was, and went, “Whoa, what’ve you got in here, anyway? You know it’s a felony to smuggle New York City fire hydrants across state lines.”
I smiled at him. Andy’s this really big goof, but he’s a nice big goof. He wouldn’t have the slightest idea what constitutes a felony in the state of New York since he’s only been there like five times. Which was, incidentally, exactly how many visits it took him to convince my mother to marry him.
”It’s not a fire hydrant,” I said. “It’s a parking meter. And I have four more bags.”
”Four?” Andy pretended he was shocked. “What do you think you’re doing, moving in, or something?”
Did I mention that Andy thinks he’s a comedian? He’s not. He’s a carpenter.
”Suze,” Doc said, all enthusiastically. “Suze, did you notice that as you were landing, the tail of the plane kicked up a little? That was from an updraft. It’s caused when a mass moving at a considerable rate of speed encounters a counter-blowing wind velocity of equal or greater strength.”
Doc, Andy’s youngest kid, is twelve, but he’s going on about forty. He spent almost the entire wedding reception telling me about alien cattle mutilation, and how Area 51 is just this big cover-up by the American government, which doesn’t want us to know that We Are Not Alone.
”Oh, Suzie,” my mom kept saying. “I’m so glad you’re here. You’re just going to love the house. It just didn’t feel like home at first, but now that you’re here … Oh, and wait until you’ve seen your room. Andy’s fixed it up so nice….”
LIVELLO 2
ESTRATTO DA “NARCISSUS IN CHAINS” DI LAURELL K. HAMILTON
JUNE HAD COME in like its usual hot, sweaty self, but a freak cold front had
moved in during the night and the car radio had been full of the record low
temperatures. It was only in the low sixties, not that cold, but after weeks of
eighty- and ninety-plus, it felt downright frigid. My best friend, Ronnie Sims,
and I were sitting in my Jeep with the windows down, letting the unseasonably
cool air drift in on us. Ronnie had turned thirty tonight. We were talking about
how she felt about the big 3-0 and other girl talk. Considering that she’s a
private detective and I raise the dead for a living it was pretty ordinary talk.
Sex, guys, turning thirty, vampires, werewolves. You know, the usual.
We could have gone inside the house, but there is something about the
intimacy of a car after dark that makes you want to linger. Or maybe it was the
sweet smell of springlike air coming through the windows like the caress of
some half-remembered lover.
“Okay, so he’s a werewolf. No one’s perfect,” Ronnie said. “Date him,
sleep with him, marry him. My vote’s for Richard.”
“I know you don’t like Jean-Claude.”
“Don’t like him!” Her hands gripped the passenger-side door handle,
squeezing it until I could see the tension in her shoulders. I think she was
counting to ten.
“If I killed as easily as you do, I’d have killed that son of a bitch two years
ago and your life would be a lot less complicated now.”
That last was an understatement. But … “I don’t want him dead, Ronnie.”
“He’s a vampire, Anita. He is dead.” She turned and looked at me in the
dark. Her soft gray eyes and yellow hair had turned to silver and near white in
the cold light of the stars. The shadows and bright reflected light left her face in
bold relief, like some modern painting. But the look on her face was almost
frightening. There was a fearful determination there.
If it had been me with that look on my face, I’d have warned me not to do
anything stupid, like kill Jean-Claude. But Ronnie wasn’t a shooter. She’d killed
twice, both times to save my life. I owed her. But she wasn’t a person who
could hunt someone down in cold blood and kill him. Not even a vampire. I
knew this about her, so I didn’t have to caution her. “I used to think I knew
what dead was or wasn’t, Ronnie.” I shook my head. “The line isn’t so clearcut.”
“He seduced you,” she said.
I looked away from her angry face and stared at the foil-wrapped swan in
my lap. Deirdorfs and Hart, where we’d had dinner, got creative with their
doggy bags: foil-wrapped animals. I couldn’t argue with Ronnie, and I was
getting tired of trying.
Finally, I said, “Every lover seduces you, Ronnie, that’s the way it works.”
She slammed her hands so hard onto the dashboard it startled me and must
have hurt her. “Damn it, Anita, it’s not the same.”
I was starting to get angry, and I didn’t want to be angry, not with Ronnie.
I had taken her out to dinner to make her feel better, not to fight. Louis Fane,
her steady boyfriend, was out of town at a conference, and she was bummed
about that, and about turning thirty. So I’d tried to make her feel better, and she
seemed determined to make me feel worse.
“Look, I haven’t seen either Jean-Claude or Richard for six months. I’m
not dating either of them, so we can skip the lecture on vampire ethics.”
“Now that’s an oxymoron,” she said.
“What is?” I asked.
“Vampire ethics,” she said.
I frowned at her. “That’s not fair, Ronnie.”
“You are a vampire executioner, Anita. You are the one who taught me
that they aren’t just people with fangs. They are monsters.”
I’d had enough. I opened the car door and slid to the edge of the seat.
Ronnie grabbed my shoulder. “Anita, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.”
I didn’t turn around. I sat there with my feet hanging out the door, the cool
air creeping into the closer warmth of the car.
“Then drop it, Ronnie. I mean drop it.”
She leaned over and gave me a quick hug from behind. “I’m sorry. It’s
none of my business who you sleep with.”
I leaned into the hug for a moment. “That’s right, it’s not.” Then I pulled
away and got out of the car. My high heels crunched on the gravel of my
driveway. Ronnie had wanted us to dress up, so we had. It was her birthday. It
wasn’t until after dinner that I’d realized her diabolical scheme. She’d had me
wear heels and a nice little black skirt outfit. The top was actually, gasp, a wellfitted
halter top. Or would that be backless evening wear? However pricey it
was, it was still a very short skirt and a halter top. Ronnie had helped me pick
the outfit out about a week ago. I should have known her innocent “oh, let’s just
both dress up” was a ruse. There had been other dresses that covered more skin
and had longer hemlines, but none that camouflaged the belly-band holster that
cut across my lower waist. I’d actually taken the holster along with us on the
shopping trip, just to be sure. Ronnie thought I was being paranoid, but I don’t
go anywhere after dark unarmed. Period.
The skirt was just roomy enough and black enough to hide the fact that I
wore the belly band and a Firestar 9mm. The top was heavy enough material,
what there was of it, that you really couldn’t see the handle of the gun under the
cloth. All I had to do was lift the bottom of the top and the gun was right there,
ready to be drawn. It was the most user-friendly dressy outfit I’d ever owned.
Made me wish they made it in a different color so I could have two of them.
Ronnie’s plan had been to go to a club on her birthday. A dance club. Eek.
I never went to clubs. I did not dance. But I went in with her. Yes, she got me
out on the floor, mainly because her dancing alone was attracting too much
unwanted male attention. At least with both of us dancing together the wouldbe
Casanovas stayed at a distance. Though saying I danced was inaccurate. I
stood there and sort of swayed. Ronnie danced. She danced like it was her last
night on Earth and she had to put every muscle to good use. It was spectacular,
and a little frightening. There was something almost desperate to it, as if
Ronnie felt the cold hand of time creeping up faster and faster. Or maybe that
was just me projecting my own insecurities. I’d turned twenty-six early in the
year, and, frankly, at the rate I was going, I probably wouldn’t have to worry
about hitting thirty. Death cures all ills. Well, most of them.
There had been one man who had attached himself to me instead of
Ronnie. I didn’t understand why. She was a tall leggy blond, dancing like she
was having sex with the music. But he offered me drinks. I don’t drink. He tried
to slow dance. I refused. I finally had to be rude. Ronnie told me to dance with
him, at least he was human. I told her that birthday guilt only went so far, and
she’d used hers up.
The last thing on God’s green earth that I needed was another man in my
life. I didn’t have a clue what to do with the two I had already. The fact that
they were, respectively, a Master Vampire and an Ulfric, werewolf king, was
only part of the problem. That fact alone should let you know just how deep a
hole I was digging. Or would that be, already have dug? Yeah, already dug. I
was about halfway to China and still throwing dirt up in the air.
I’d been celibate for six months. So, as far as I knew, had they. Everyone
was waiting for me to make up my mind. Waiting for me to choose, or decide,
something, anything.
I’d been a rock for half a year, because I’d stayed away from them. I hadn’t
seen them, in the flesh anyway. I had returned no phone calls. I had run for the
hills at the first hint of cologne. Why such drastic measures? Frankly, because
almost every time I saw them, I fell off the chastity wagon. They both had my
libido, but I was trying to decide who had my heart. I still didn’t know. The
only thing I had decided was that it was time to stop hiding. I had to see them
and figure out what we were all going to do. I’d decided two weeks ago that I
needed to see them. It was the day that I refilled my birth-control pill
prescription, and started taking it again. The very last thing I needed was a
surprise pregnancy. That the first thing I thought of when I thought of Richard
and Jean-Claude was to go back on birth control tells you something about the
effect they had on me.
You needed to be on the pill for at least a month to be safe, or as safe as
you ever got. Four more weeks, five to be sure, then I’d call. Maybe.
I heard Ronnie’s heels running on the gravel. “Anita, Anita, wait, don’t be
angry.”
The thing was, I wasn’t angry with her. I was angry with me. Angry that
after all these months I still couldn’t decide between the two men. I stopped
walking and waited for her, huddled in my little black skirt outfit, the little foil
swan in my hands. The night had turned cool enough to make me wish I’d worn
a jacket. When Ronnie caught up with me I started walking again.
“I’m not mad, Ronnie, just tired. Tired of you, my family, Dolph,
Zerbrowski, everyone being so damned judgmental.” My heels hit the sidewalk
with sharp clacks. Jean-Claude had once said he could tell if I was angry just by
the sound of my heels on the floor. “Watch your step. You’re wearing higher
heels than I am.” Ronnie was five feet eight, which meant with heels she was
nearly six feet.
I was wearing two-inch heels, which put me at five five. I get a much
better workout when Ronnie and I jog together than she does.
The phone was ringing as I juggled the key and the foil-wrapped leftovers.
Ronnie took the leftovers, and I shoved the door open with my shoulder. I was
running across the floor in my high heels before I remembered that I was on
vacation. Which meant whatever emergency was calling at 2:05 in the morning
was not my problem, not for another two weeks at least. But old habits die
hard, and I was at the phone before I remembered. I actually let the machine
pick up while I stood there, heart pounding. I was planning on ignoring it, but
… but I still stood ready to grab the receiver just in case.
Loud, booming music, and a man’s voice. I didn’t recognize the music, but
I recognized the voice. “Anita, it’s Gregory. Nathaniel’s in trouble.”
Gregory was one of the wereleopards I’d inherited when I killed their
alpha, their leader. As a human, I wasn’t really up to the job, but until I found a
replacement, even I was better than nothing. Wereanimals without a dominant
to protect them were anyone’s meat, and if someone moved in and slaughtered
them, it would sort of be my fault. So I acted as their protector, but the job was
more complicated than I’d ever dreamed. Nathaniel was the problem. All the
others were rebuilding their lives since their old leader had been killed, but not
Nathaniel. He’d had a hard life: abused, raped, pimped out, and topped. Topped
meant he’d been someone’s slave—as in sex and pain. He was one of the few
true submissives I’d ever met, though, admittedly, my pool of acquaintance was
limited.
I cursed softly and picked up the phone. “I’m here, Gregory, what’s
happened now?” Even to me, my voice sounded tired and half-angry.
“If I had anyone else to call, Anita, I’d call them, but you’re it.” He
sounded tired and angry, too. Great.
“Where’s Elizabeth? She was supposed to be riding herd on Nathaniel
tonight.” I’d finally agreed that Nathaniel could start going out to the
dominance and submission clubs if he was accompanied by Elizabeth and at
least one other wereleopard. Tonight it had been Gregory riding shotgun, but
without Elizabeth, Gregory wasn’t dominant enough to keep Nathaniel safe. A
normal submissive would have been safe in one of the clubs with someone
there to simply say, “no thanks, we’ll pass.” But Nathaniel was one of those rare
subs who are almost incapable of saying no, and there had been hints made that
his idea of pain and sex could be very extreme. Which meant that he might say
yes to things that were very, very bad for him. Wereanimals can take a lot of
injury and not be permanently damaged, but there is a limit. A healthy bottom
will say stop when he’s had too much or he feels something bad happening, but
Nathaniel wasn’t that healthy. So he had keepers with him to make sure no one
really bad got ahold of him. But it was more than that. A good dominant trusts
his sub to say when before the damage is too great. The dom trusts the sub to
know his own body and have enough self-preservation to call out before he is
in past what his body can take. Nathaniel did not come with that safety feature,
which meant a dominant with the best of intentions could end up hurting him
badly before realizing Nathaniel wouldn’t help himself.
LIVELLO 3
Estratto dal libro “Shadow touch”, di Marjorie Liu
It is the endless sleep. Endless and undying, the perfect nothing. Torture, is it not? I could trap you here. I could keep you here, if you do not obey…
Artur opened his eyes. The voice lingered, fading slowly like the last tendril of a hard dream. He did not know how long those words had filled his head, but it felt like a lifetime. Endless and undying.
Warm shadows surrounded Artur, holding him softly beneath a gold-embroidered crimson coverlet. A small lamp burned on the bedside table, real flame flickering inside shimmering antique glass. A gentle light, easy on his eyes. Artur lay very still, his gaze wandering over the large room. He studied the red cloth-paneled walls, which displayed a gilt-edged diamond-and-floral pattern. Drapes of a similar design hung from the tall bedposts. He smelled wood polish and old cigarettes, the scent made strong by the stuffy air.
He had no idea where he was, except that the room looked like it had been decorated with the malignant focus of an elderly woman with absolutely no taste.
The room did not look like a prison. Despite—or because of—the overdone decoration, it reminded Artur of the old salons his Russian bosses had frequented; antique styles of wealth that appealed to Mafia lords seeking illusions of class and dignity for their business dealings. Artur had never liked those places, although the hypocrisy associated with their use bothered him more than the strain on his eyes.
You were just muscle, a gun for hire. What did you know about hypocrisy? You were pretending, just like them. Pretending to be something more important than a runaway, an orphan, a freak. You lived your life as an illusion.
Artur tilted his head so that his cheek touched the satin pillow. The image of a woman came to him, but the echo of her thoughts was dull, so thick and slow he could not read anything useful. Her name was Greta. She was young, and had been trained for a long time in simple menial tasks. She never left the building Artur was in. She did not know where she was. She spoke English, but sometimes she heard words around her that were different. Incomprehensible. She was not abused, though. That was all that mattered to her.
His gloves were on. His gloves, and not some new pair. He could tell by the feel and stretch of the leather, the familiar comfort of his own echo. That he wore his gloves did not seem right, and Artur remembered he had removed them inside his home, laid them down on the table.
Artur took off a glove and held it. He felt nothing. Not a trace of the man who had attacked him in his home, and then dressed his hands.
Brown hair, green eyes. There was no mistaking the man’s identity. This was the same man who had murdered Marilyn and others—perhaps many others—and had incapacitated Artur in a move as simple as breathing. The serial killer had come looking for him with a purpose. With knowledge. Someone had sent him to do a job, and that job was Artur.
He had one more task to complete. One more task before disappearing. All that death, leading up to… me.
“Bozhe moy,” Artur murmured, stunned. Horrified. My God. It makes no sense. Who would do this? Who would hire a serial killer to kidnap a man? And why kidnap me? Why go to such lengths?
Marilyn’s weeping turned accusatory; Artur wondered with dull shock if she and the two other women had been some kind of payment. If they had died for a man they did not know. The thought alone was almost enough to make him want to die. Artur knew he had enemies, but none of them were so subtle, so motivated. A bullet would be good enough. A bullet would be just fine. But not this. No one went to so much trouble for a man whose only fate was a quick grave. Not for any man, ever.
So. Someone wanted him alive. Someone wanted to use him. Someone who had gone through the difficulty of hunting down his past, of researching his movements, his habits, his home. Someone who had large sums of money and almost no ethics. Someone powerful enough to rein in a serial killer.
Right. He was in a lot of trouble.
Artur carefully pushed away the covers. His head hurt—a dull throb that radiated from the base of his skull into his eyes. He tried ignoring the pain, the weakness in his limbs. He gazed down at his body. The rest of his clothing seemed intact. No visible injuries. No guns, either. He had been plucked from his home like a doll. He removed his other glove and placed both in his pockets.
He slid off the bed. His shoes—someone had thought of that, too—sank into the thick red shag carpet. There was a door in front of him, richly carved in the same diamond pattern of the wall. Artur began walking toward it, struggling to stay upright. The ache in his head was excruciating. He wondered what kind of sedative had been used. He wondered, too, what kind of man could sneak up on him in his own home, with his feet naked and so sensitive to the lingering echo of others.
“The door is locked,” said a low voice.
Artur spun—too fast, too hard; he was too used to being graceful on his feet. Pain flared. His knees buckled. He staggered, clutching the bedpost for support. Humiliating weakness.
At first he did not see anyone. Silence, the quiet dark. And then he caught movement on the other side of the large room, deep within an alcove made of drapes and woodwork. Shadows shifted, like a ghost unfolding its limbs. A thin, pale face floated free. Artur saw a skullcap of blond hair, an impossibly slender body clad in a fitted gray suit.
“Greetings,” said the woman. Her voice was melodically quiet. She looked unarmed.
Artur straightened slowly, gathering enough strength to step away from the bed. A stupid mistake to have assumed he was alone. He wondered what else he had missed about his room, which was filled with many hiding places: voluminous drapes, a large wardrobe, even the space beneath the bed.
The woman in front of him stood quite still, cold and gray as a spindly statue. Artur had trouble focusing on her face; his headache seemed to radiate into his eyes, blinding him with quick, short bursts.
“Who are you?” he asked, struggling to speak clearly.
A thin smile touched the woman’s pale lips. “That is always the first question. I can think of so many others that would be more useful. More intelligent.”
Artur briefly closed his eyes. “If you are looking for intelligence, you chose the wrong man to take from his home.”
The smile widened. “Very nice. A Russian smart-ass. I like that.”
“Surely I am not such a novelty.” Artur ran his hands over the end of the bed. The woman shook her head.
“You are the perfect novelty. And really, don’t bother. You won’t discover anything about me or my associates in this room. Even my shoes are new. Quite impersonal. The only people who have been allowed here are those without any real connection to my life or organization. Your gift is useless.”
“I could touch you” Artur said, disturbed by the woman’s knowledge. Tatyana’s fault, probably. He had no doubt this woman was responsible for the men who had approached his former lover. He did not believe in coincidence. Nor did it matter that he already knew of Tatyana’s betrayal; to be faced with his secrets and have them used against him by clear enemies was profoundly unsettling.
“Touch me?” She looked amused. “Oh, I’m sure. That, however, would be cheating. Some things must be earned the hard way, Mr. Loginov. Like the truth. Like certain… rewards.”
“Rewards.” Artur narrowed his eyes. “Who are you? Who do you work for?”
The woman tilted her head: a sharp motion, precise and measured. She reminded him of the serial killer—that cold assessment, ruthless calculation hidden by the facade of human expression.
“You may call me Ms. Graves,” she finally said. “I represent the Consortium.”
“I have never heard of your organization,” Artur said, because there was something in her voice that suggested he should be familiar with the name. Unfortunately, she looked pleased with his response, which made Artur uneasy—and rather nauseous. He wanted to lie down. He felt as if someone were hammering a nail into the base of his skull.
Graves said, “I’ve brought you here for a job. The Consortium hires men like you.”
Artur said, “No.”
“Really. That was a speedy decision. You’ve heard so little. I had no idea curiosity was such a rare commodity in the criminally reformed. Not to mention all the work that has gone into acquiring your services or making you comfortable in a familiar setting. Surely you can suffer us a moment.”
No, he could not. Artur did not have time for patience, especially not for a woman who used serial killers to kidnap him from his home. He lunged toward her, hands outstretched for the truth. He took one step—
—and found a gun pointed at his face. A fast draw; Artur never saw her move.
She looked very calm. “I was told you are a patient man. Unemotional and calculating. I believe my source was wrong.”
Tatyana. Artur struggled not to vomit. Moving so quickly had almost incapacitated him. “I am an opportunist. A survivor. Whoever you spoke with forgot to mention that, as well.”
“No. I simply expected more self-control.” The woman gestured for Artur to sit on the bed. “Please, make yourself comfortable. You look ready to faint.”
Artur remained standing. Graves sighed and sidled several steps left. She sat gracefully on the deep seat of a rich red velvet armchair. The entire room was beginning to remind Artur of a bleeding heart. Perhaps his own, if he was not careful.
Graves propped her gun hand on her knee. Her aim never wavered.
“Normally I take the time for pleasantries and explanations—time enough to ease a man into his required role—but you are different. You, Mr. Loginov, do not require ease or sweet words. You already know the truth, that you are not alone in this world. You are accustomed to using your gift in return for money. I like this about you. It makes my task easier.”
“I question your taste.”
She laughed: a sharp, brittle sound. “My taste is perfect.”
“So perfect, you assume I will take your mysterious offer, even though I know nothing about your organization, except that it must be despicable? How charmingly naive.”
“Sticks and stones, Mr. Loginov. Besides, I call your presence here an invitation to a leap of faith. A faith born of clear advantage, power, and financial gain. Yon really cannot go wrong when you have all three of those in your pocket.”
“And what of ethics? Can you defend an organization that hires a serial killer to kidnap a man from his own home?”
“A moot point. The Consortium does what it has to. We believe in guarantees, which our select employees provide with their natural abilities. Our methods have worked very nicely for some time. Your profile provided no reason to diverge from that pattern.”
“What kind of organization considers violence to be a ‘certain guarantee’?”
“The kind you used to work for. The kind you still work for.”
“I do not think you know what you are talking about,” Artur said.
“Oh, I think I do. I think I have a very good understanding of your particular situation. I can assure you, Mr. Loginov, the Consortium is not all that different from your current employers. We simply don’t pretend the way your esteemed Dirk and Steele does. We don’t hide behind acceptable social constructs as a means of using our powers. We don’t justify the use of our gifts with Pollyanna hypocrisy.” Graves spit those last words, her voice hard and long and sharp. “Oh, your shock. Really. Did you truly believe yours was the only organization of its kind?”
It took him a moment to make his voice work. It was difficult to speak in the face of his worst nightmare, the pitiless coil of a stranger’s gaze bearing down upon all his most precious secrets. “How did you find us?” he finally managed, and his voice sounded old and worn and tired.
Graves leaned back in her chair. Her gaze was steady, unafraid. Softly she said, “It was inevitable. The world is too small for what we do, who we are. Only we found you first.” She shook her head, tapping her jaw with one pale bony finger. “It was Chinatown that did it, Mr. Loginov. Wen Zhang’s murder. Dirk and Steele should have minded its own business. You cost us a great deal of money.”
It was Chinatown that did it. Wen Zhang’s murder. My God. It all makes sense now. Memory rolled over him; those horrible days when so many at the agency had come close to losing one of their dearest friends. Wen Zhang had been the leader of a major crime group in New York City’s Chinatown, who a year ago had attempted to murder Nancy Dirk’s granddaughter, Dela Reese. He’d come close; the young woman had almost lost her life.
The grand matriarch of the shape-shifters—the dragon woman, Long Nü—had put the final stop to Wen’s actions, but not before he discovered Dela’s telekinetic abilities. Artur still remembered Wen’s voice, accusing Dela of belonging to a new crime syndicate encroaching on his territory, a syndicate whose members also exhibited strange powers.
An unsettling idea. Roland had conducted an in-depth investigation into the matter, but found nothing. Like ghosts, the story remained unsubstantiated.
But they were real. They paid attention. They found us. We are not alone.
Artur found himself wishing they were.
Se siete risultati un livello 1:
Siete in grado di leggere libri young adult e libri di autrici come Maryjanice Davidson, Linsay Sands, Meg Cabot, Michelle Bardesley, Katie MacAlister ecc…. Ecco alcuni titoli che potreste leggere:
-Shadowaland, di Meg Cabot
-Single white vampire, di Lyndasy Sands
-A girl’s guide to vampires, di Katie MacAlister
-Undead and Unwed, di Maryjanice Davidson
Se siete risultati un livello 2:
Siete in grado di leggere Laurell K. Hamilton e la maggior parte delle autrici urban fantasy americane.Ma andate per gradi. La hamilton è tra le più semplici, le altre potrebbero frenarvi un pò alll’inizio, ma ben presto non avrete problemi con nessuna.
Alcuni libri che potete leggere sono:
-Micah, di Laurell K. Hamilton
-Vulnerable, di Amy Lane
-Dark lover, di J. R. Ward
Se siete risultati un livello 3:
Potete leggere tutti gli autori urban fantasy americani contemporanei che volete. Senza alcun limite.
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