Chiaraleggetroppo

Venticinque anni e il naso sempre tra le pagine – Chistmas edition!


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#53 Teaser Thursday!

Al volo, perché sono un po’ di corsa oggi – ma come tutte le volte che nomino il blog con persone che conosco nel mondo al di fuori dello schermo o queste persone mi chiedono del blog o delle mie letture, beh, il senso di colpa per la mancanza di post da qualche mese a questa parte è troppo grande e mi costringere a muovere la chiappe della mia virtuale pigrizia e produrre qualcosa. Caso vuole che oggi sia giovedì, quindi giornata di teaser: posso ritenermi fortunata. Vi lascio con un pezzettino della distopia che ho un lettura, Il giardino degli eterni di Lauren De Stefano e scappo a fare un po’ di commissioni prima di correre in palestra a provare un corso nuovo – potenzialmente mortale, e non sto scherzando neanche un pochino.

«Stai bene?», mi chiede.
È una domanda semplice e a lui che ha salvato la mia vita, per quanto poco valesse, riesco a dire la verità: «No».
Mi guarda per un po’. Devo avere un aspetto abbastanza patetico, ma non sembra che stia davvero guardando me: pare che il mio viso lo stia portando in qualche luogo lontano.
«Che c’è?», gli chiedo. «A cosa stai pensando?».
Fa passare un po’ prima di rispondere. «Te n’eri quasi andata». E non si riferisce al fatto che sono quasi scappata. Apro la bocca, non so bene per dire cosa. Forse vorrei scusarmi di nuovo, ma lui mi prende il viso tra le mani e preme la sua fronte contro la mia. Mi sta così vicino che sento i suoi piccoli respiri caldi, e so solo che, la prossima volta che inspira, vorrei che portasse via anche me. Le nostre labbra si sfiorano così delicatamente che all’inizio me ne accorgo appena. Poi premono le une contro le altre con più forza e si tirano un po’ indietro solo per ritornare a unirsi. Per tutto il corpo sento scorrere il calore, anche tra le ossa rotte, laddove dovrei provare solo dolore. Gli metto le braccia intorno al collo e lo tengo stretto. Stretto perché in questo posto non sai mai quando ti porteranno via le cose belle.
C’è un rumore in corridoio e ci dividiamo bruscamente. Gabriel si alza e va a vedere, poi guarda fuori dalla finestra. Siamo soli, ma ci siamo presi un bello spavento. La porta è aperta: davvero un bel modo di stare attenti. Riesco a sentire distintamente il mio cuore che batte. Ed è per l’euforia, non per il dolore o per il vento forte, che non riesco a respirare. Gabriel si schiarisce la voce: ha le guance di un rosa acceso e gli occhi un po’ offuscati. Non riusciamo a incrociare i nostri sguardi. «Ti ho portato una cosa», dice, evitando di fissarmi. Mi porge quello che aveva in mano un minuto fa: è un libro nero e pesante, con un cuore rosso sulla copertina.
«Mi hai portato l’atlante di Linden?», gli domando, un po’ perplessa.
«Sì, ma guardalo». Lo apre su una pagina piena di mappe marroni e beige, con sopra delle linee blu. Il titolo in cima dice Fiumi d’Europa. Su un lato c’è una legenda che indica i fiumi e i punti d’interesse. Gabriel mi indica il terzo dal basso: Rhine. Fa scorrere il dito su tutta la lunghezza della linea blu.
«Rhine è un fiume», dice.
Be’, era un fiume. Prima che tutto venisse distrutto. Io non lo sapevo, ma i miei genitori sicuramente sì. Gli piaceva tanto giocare agli scienziati misteriosi, e alla fine non hanno mai avuto occasione per dirci tante cose, a me e a mio fratello.
Seguo il dito di Gabriel lungo il percorso di un fiume che non esiste più. Penso che magari è ancora laggiù, da qualche parte: potrebbe essersi disperso nell’oceano, dietro quel cancello di ferro a forma di fiore che porta alla libertà.
«Non ne avevo idea», dico. «Pensavo che non significasse niente».
Era a questo che si riferiva Rose, quando le rivelai il mio nome e lei mi rispose che era un posto bellissimo?
«Dice solo che era un fiume navigabile, non ci sono altre informazioni», aggiunge Gabriel, un po’ deluso.
«Ma va bene così!».
Rido e gli metto un braccio intorno al collo per avvicinarlo a me, poi gli do un bacio di ringraziamento sulla fronte. Tutti e due diventiamo rossissimi. Non può immaginare cosa significhi per me, ma dal suo sguardo capisco che si rende conto di aver fatto una bella cosa. Mi leva qualche ciocca di capelli dalla fronte e mi guarda. Rhine. Il fiume che, da qualche parte là fuori, è diventato libero.

Rhine ha sedici anni ed è bellissima. Ma è condannata a un destino terribile: morirà il giorno del suo ventesimo compleanno. E, come lei, tutti i ragazzi che vivono sulla Terra in un futuro non troppo lontano. Nel tentativo di trovare una cura per il cancro, infatti, un gruppo di scienziati ha finito per condannare la razza umana a una vita brevissima: vent’anni per le donne e venticinque per gli uomini. Anche l’avvenenza di Rhine rappresenta un pericolo: in questo mondo in decadenza, le ragazze più belle vengono rapite e date in spose ai Governatori, una casta di uomini ricchi e potenti.
Rinchiusa in una lussuosa dimora, Rhine passa i suoi giorni pensando a un modo per scappare e tornare alla libertà. Soprattutto da quando ha scoperto che la gabbia dorata in cui è prigioniera nasconde uno sconvolgente segreto: nei sotterranei vengono compiuti agghiaccianti esperimenti sugli esseri umani. Nel suo folle piano di fuga, sarà aiutata da un affascinante coetaneo incontrato durante la sua reclusione. Ma il tempo stringe e la libertà sembra sempre più lontana…

Che cosa faresti se conoscessi il giorno esatto della tua morte?


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#52 Teaset tuesday!

Una saga spettacolare, di cui è stato tradotto unicamente il primo capitolo.
L’estate scorsa mi struggevo d’amore per Aric, la Morte, e qualcosa mi dice che anche quest’anno la situazione non sarà troppo diversa. In attesa di veder comparire il mio terribile cavaliere biondo, vi lascio con il teaser di oggi. Buona giornata, buone letture!

I stared into Tess’s dark blue eyes as her power began to manifest.
Her skin heated beneath my hands, and a dull buzz sounded. A breeze blew in a circle around us. From my thorns? No, the current of air flowed clockwise.
Her power stoked, the heat from her body increasing till it scalded me. But I refused to release my hold. The buzz grew in volume. Louder. Louder. Our hair was dragged straight upward. When her body started levitating, I sank my claws deeper. If I hadn’t been here to anchor her, would she have floated away?
The noise had gotten so loud her ears bled. Wet warmth slicked down my neck as well.
Suddenly Tess threw back her head and screamed. I could perceive the earth—or our existence or reality or something—stilling for one airless instant . . . before grinding into motion. The wrong way.
We were rotating backward! The World Card, Quintessence herself, was making time flow in reverse.
First rotation. Below us came a splash as the Priestess first attacked. The leftover arsenal I’d used against her began to vanish—but within Tess’s circle, I remained the same, wet and bloodied.
Tess met my gaze. Her skin paled, her cheeks thinning.
Second rotation. Previous versions of me and Tess fled from the soldiers through the rock gully.
Beneath my claws, she was shedding weight at an alarming rate. “Please, Empress.” The whites of her eyes were red, vessels blown. From pressure?
Jack’s own eyes were gone. Brutally stolen. So I clawed her harder.
Third rotation. The soldiers had just begun giving chase.
Tess’s breathing grew labored. Her face was haggard, her cheekbones jutting sharply. Patches of her raised mane of hair came out, long sections plucked away into the ether.
Fourth rotation. Four disguised Arcana meandered through the camp, almost at the twins’ tent.
Tess’s sunken red eyes pleaded. She looked like one of my famine victims from a past game. Brittle. Dying.
Her arms deflated in my grip, my bloody claws scraping over bone.
Scrape, scrape . . .
Would I kill this girl to save Jack’s sight? “Not yet, Tess! Not yet!”

Fifth rotation. Still disguised, Gabriel and an earlier version of Tess landed on this bluff, meeting up with Selena and the earlier version of me. The beginning of our mission.
“No more!” I screamed.
As if at the end of a car wreck, the spinning abruptly . . . stopped. Tess’s head lolled, the remains of her hair hanging over her face.
The earth righted itself in fitful movements, seeming to gasp from exertion. With a shudder, the rotation ground forward once more.
Those earlier versions of me and Tess disappeared—leaving us, two girls aware of the near future, but physically changed. I’d been drained of power, with no arsenal to show for it.
And Tess . . . I released her arms, catching her as she collapsed, unconscious. Her now baggy clothing swallowed her emaciated body. Her teeth chattered, and she shivered for warmth. Would she survive?

Can Evie convince her rival loves to work together? Their survival depends on it in this third book of #1 New York Times bestselling author Kresley Cole’s Arcana Chronicles, a nonstop action tale of rescue, redemption, and a revenge most wicked.
Heartbreaking decisions
Evie was almost seduced by the life of comfort that Death offered her—until Jack was threatened by two of the most horrific Arcana, the Lovers. She will do anything to save him, even escape Death’s uncanny prison, full of beautiful objects, material comforts…and stolen glances from a former love.
Uncertain victory
Despite leaving a part of her heart behind with Death, Evie sets out into a perilous post-apocalyptic wasteland to meet up with her allies and launch an attack on the Lovers. Such formidable enemies require a battle plan, and the only way to kill them may mean Evie, Jack, and Death allying. Evie doesn’t know what will prove more impossible: surviving slavers, plague, Bagmen and other Arcana—or convincing Jack and Death to work together.
Two heroes returned
There’s a thin line between love and hate, and Evie just doesn’t know where she stands with either Jack or Death. Will this unlikely trio be able to defeat The Lovers without killing one another first…?


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#51 Teaser Tuesday!

Un po’ tardi, forse, ma che dire? Le atmosfere di questo libro mi hanno fatto perdere totalmente la cognizione del tempo e, beh, il teaser di oggi parla da sé: una scena meravigliosa.

In the deepest, most hidden room of the Chernosvyat, whose ossified cupolas shone here and there with silver bubbles and steel cruciforms, Koschei the Deathless sat on his throne of onyx and bone. His eyes drooped, redly exhausted, from weeping or working or both. Before him, on a great table formed from the pelvic dish of some impossibly huge fish, lay scattered maps and plans and letters, papers and couriers’ boxes, photographs and sketches, books wedged open, upside down, splitting their spines. Marya Morevna entered, her hunting costume half-open in the heat of the place. The dark walls of the Chernosvyat often seemed to breathe, and their breath came either brutally hot or mercilessly cold. Marya never knew which to expect. Silently, she walked around the long table and let a single golden feather drop. It drifted lazily down to rest on a requisition form. It no longer flamed, but glowed with a soft amber light.
“I would have preferred it living, volchitsa,” said Koschei, without looking up.
Marya shrugged. “It only died just now, as much of exhaustion from the hunt as the bullet.”
Koschei rose from his papers and drew her to him, bending to kiss her collarbone.
“I am proud of you, of course, beloved, baleful. But you must realize that you have only added a firebird to Viy’s cavalry. A black, flameless thing, its bony wings bearing ghost-pilots with their arms full of ordnance.”
Marya Morevna shut her eyes, savoring his lips on her skin as she savored the slab of black bread, buttered and spread with roe, once, long ago.
“It was hiding a clutch of eggs,” she breathed as he gripped her hair and tilted her head to show her throat, pale and bare. “In a short while we shall have enough firebirds to pull a siege tower, and still have one or two left over to light the hearth when we return.” His weight against her chilled and wakened her skin. She smiled against his dark glove. “Besides, it was tradition, once, for a suitor to fetch a firebird’s feather to show their good and marriageable qualities.”
“I know your qualities.”
Marya said nothing. She did not feel an urgency to marry, exactly—nothing like her sisters, who had longed for it like the prize at the end of a long and difficult game. But she did feel that as long as Koschei kissed her and kissed her and did not marry her, she remained a child in Buyan—a cosseted tsarevna, but not a Tsaritsa, not a native. A human toy. She did not care whether he gave her a ring—he had given her dozens, of every dark and glinting gem—but she did not wish to be a princess forever. Koschei picked up the knife he had been using to open couriers’ seals and looked up at her speculatively. Reaching up, he slowly sliced off the buttons of her hunting dress.
“If you keep cutting at me I shall have no clothes left,” said Marya Morevna. The gems in her hair clattered against one another as he cupped her skull in one large hand. With the other, he cut away the skirt of her dress in a stroke, like peeling the skin off a red, red apple. His hands burned coldly on her. She felt, as she could always feel, the bones of him beneath the skin of his fingers, his hips. Then he hardened, his skin becoming warm and real and full. A skeleton, always, embraced her first, and then remembered to be a man. She understood—had he not told her?To be Deathless is to treat with death in every moment. To stave death is not involuntary, like breathing, but a constant tension, like balancing a glass on the head. And each day the Tsar of Life fought in his own body to keep death down like a chastened dog. Koschei dug his nails into the small of Marya’s naked back; blood welled in tiny drops. Marya cried out a little, her breath thin and quick, and he lifted his thumb to his lips, suckling at the little smear of her blood. His cheeks, always gaunt, hung with shadows, and he watched her with a starveling’s eyes. But that did not frighten her anymore. Her lover often looked starved, hounded. She could kiss those things from him, and often did, until his face waxed seraphic, soft, smooth—as anyone can do for her mate when the day is long and hard, and solace far off. She thought nothing of it now, of kissing him alive. Everything in this place was livid and lurid and living, and when he loved her and hurt her all at once she lived, too, higher and harder than she had thought she could. Yes, she thought, magic is like that, when it comes. Like the fountains of blood, the houses of skin and hair, Koschei had long since become home. So Marya smiled as he bit her shoulders, feeling infant bruises bloom invisibly under her skin. Tomorrow I shall wear them like medals, she thought as he lifted her up onto the wreckage of field maps and mechanical diagrams.
“Koschei,” she whispered against his neck, where his dark hair curled. “Where do you keep your death?”
Koschei the Deathless lifted the calves of Marya Morevna around his waist and sank into her with the weight of years. He moaned against her breast. It stopped her breath, how like a child the Tsar of Life became when he needed her. The power she had over him, that he gave her. Who is to rule, that is all.
“Tell me,” she whispered. She wanted that, too. She wanted so much these days, everything she touched.
“Hush, you Delilah!” He thrust against her, the bones of his hips stabbing at her soft belly.
“I keep nothing from you. I befriend your friends; I eat as you eat; I teach you the dialectic! If you will not take me to wife, at least take me into confidence.”
Koschei squeezed his eyes shut. He winced with the force of his secret, his climax, his need. As he gripped her tighter and tighter, Marya thought his face grew rounder, younger, as though breathing in her own youth.
“I keep it in a glass chest,” he gasped finally, pushing her roughly back over the stacks of predicted troop movements, his fists caught up in the infinite mass of her hair. “Guarded by four dogs: a wolf like you, a starved racing hound, a haughty lap pup, and a fat sheepdog. All their names begin with the same letter, and only I know the letter.” He shut his eyes against her cheek as she arched toward him like a drawn bow. “And only someone who knows their names can reach the chest where I keep my death.”
Koschei cried out as though he were dying. He leaned against his love, his chest shaking. She held him, like a baby, like her own. And it did not escape her that speaking of his death excited Koschei somewhere deep inside, as if the proximity of it, even the word itself, sizzled electric in his brain.
“Will we win, Koschei?” she whispered. The room went suddenly frigid, frost gathering at the tall windows. “Will we win this war?”
“War is not for winning, Masha,” sighed Koschei, reading the tracks of supply lines, of pincer strategies, over her shoulder. “It is for surviving.”

A glorious retelling of the Russian folktale Marya Morevna and Koschei the Deathless, set in a mysterious version of St. Petersburg during the first half of the 20th century.
Child of the revolution, maiden of myth, bride of darkness.
A handsome young man arrives in St Petersburg at the house of Marya Morevna. He is Koschei, the Tsar of Life, and he is Marya’s fate.
Koschei leads Marya to his kingdom, where she becomes a warrior in his tireless battle against his own brother, the Tsar of Death.
Years pass. Battle-hardened, scarred by love, and longing for respite, Marya returns to St Petersburg – only to discover a place as pitiful as the land she has just fled: a starveling city, haunted by death.
Deathless is a fierce story of life and death, love and power, old memories, deep myth and dark magic, set against the history of Russia in the twentieth century. It is, quite simply, unforgettable.

 


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#49 Teaser Tue—Thursday!

Buongiorno!
Mentre mi leggete sto probabilmente fallendo nel seguire una lezione perché mentre vi scrivo è mercoledì pomeriggio, c’è un sole meraviglioso e sto per buttarmi a letto un paio d’ore: ho un impegno serale, che coinvolge karaoke e temo dell’alcol, al quale non posso mancare. Quindi mi prendo per tempo e preparo questo post con un teaser rapido rapido, sempre tratto dalle pagine di Radiant Shadow, di Melissa Marr. Amo questa saga. La amo. Perché non l’ho scoperta prima?

Gabriel e Devlin si stavano guardando in cagnesco.
«Non serve a nulla parlare». Ani si sedette accanto a Rabbit.
Il fratello le mise un braccio sulle spalle. «Gabriel ha bisogno di sfogare il suo dolore».
«Battendosi contro il mio…», s’interruppe quando si rese conto di non saper concludere la frase.
«Il tuo cosa?», ringhiò Gabriel dando uno spintone a Devlin. «Il suo cosa?».
«Basta». Ani balzò in piedi e si piazzò davanti al padre. «È lui che mi ha protetto finora».
«È il Sicario della Regina Suprema…».
«Sì, e tu sei quello del Re del Buio», replicò Ani esasperata. «E con ciò?».
Gabriel allungò un braccio come a volerla togliere di mezzo, ma la figlia glielo bloccò.
A quel gesto lui la fissò e sorrise, preparandosi a colpirla.
«Non credo proprio», esclamò Ani. Schivò il colpo sferrando un pugno che fece barcollare il padre. Era la prima volta nella sua vita che lo metteva in difficoltà.
Di riflesso Gabriel replicò non con uno di quei colpetti bonari e insultanti a cui era Ani abituata, ma un vero cazzotto, tirato da un segugio che colpisce un suo pari.
«Volevi colpirmi», mormorò lei. «Hai davvero cercato di colpirmi!».
«Ti ho colpito», disse lui tastandosi il viso, «e tu hai colpito me».
Si strinse a lui. «Finalmente».
Gabriel la guardava con orgoglio. «Mi hai dato un cazzotto degno di Chela. Com’è possibile?».
«Ani non ha quasi più nulla di umano», spiegò Devlin in tono imperturbabile, falsamente calmo. «Il suo sangue mortale è stato consumato dal tuo, Gabriel. È per questo che è così anomala e sospetto che dipenda dal fatto che Jillian avesse un antenato non mortale».
Gabriel la sollevò da terra, abbracciandola. «Sei ancora la mia bambina, però. Non pensare di potertela svignare senza avvertirci. Okay?».
«Volevo solo proteggere voi». Ani simulò un ringhio, ma non era in collera con lui per quell’atteggiamento protettivo: sapeva che era tipico della Corte Oscura e dei segugi. «E c’erano Devlin e Barry con me. Non ero sola».
Gabriel la posò di nuovo a terra. «Barry?».
«È così che ho chiamato il mio destriero».
Il padre le diede una pacca su una spalla e lei si sentì meglio.
Poi comprese che Devlin aveva intuito che un piccolo assaggio di violenza l’avrebbe fatta stare meglio. Lo guardò e sorrise.
Il sollievo che vide sul suo volto le strinse il cuore. Ani gli porse la mano. «Allora, cosa si fa?».
Devlin fece un cenno con il capo in direzione di Gabriel. «Se lo scontro vi ha calmati, forse potremmo tornare al nostro piano».
«Questo non significa che tu mi piaccia più di prima», minacciò Gabriel. «Prova soltanto a deluderla e io giuro che ti massacrerò finché non mi chiederai…».
«In quel caso essere massacrato sarebbe il minore dei mali». Devlin strinse Ani a sé.
Gabriel annuì e si avviò in soggiorno, dove li stavano aspettando Irial e Niall.

Per metà umana e per metà essere fatato, Ani è guidata dai propri appetiti. Ma sono gli stessi che guidano anche nemici potenti e deboli alleati, come Devlin che è stato modellato per essere un assassino ed è il fratello della Regina dell’Alta Corte, fredda e calcolatrice, nonché della gemella di lei, confusionaria e personificazione della guerra. Devlin però vuole salvare Ani dalle sue sorelle, sapendo che, se fallisce, sarà lui lo strumento con cui la ragazza verrà uccisa. Ani, da parte sua, non è tipo da lasciarsi controllare mentre altri lottano a causa sua: ha abbastanza coraggio da proteggere se stessa e alterare i piani di Devlin. I due sono indissolubilmente legati da un destino che li rende allo stesso tempo minaccia e protezione l’uno per l’altra. Ma nel momento in cui la loro vicinanza diventa più stretta, un inganno ancora maggiore si prepara a mettere in pericolo il mondo fatato. Il prezzo da pagare perché si salvi sarà dunque la loro separazione?

 


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Citazione: “Alienated”, Melissa Landers.

I sweat, it’s last time you’re going to read a blog post in English.
My week as curator of the @I_am_Europe account it’s almost over, so I’m not going to share there any other post. But since today it’s the last day, I want to say goodbye on this blog too. It has been fun and challenging to tweet everyday in a foreign language and of course I’m going to miss all those people who interacted with me, but I’m not going to lie: I’m happy to speak and write Italian again. So thank you, european people who read me! Here’s a teaser for you, from a lovely books I read a while ago: Alienated, by Melissa Landers. Enjoy!

Closing his eyes, he wrapped his hand around Cara’s fragile wrist, then smoothed it slowly up the length of her arm to her shoulder. He gulped a breath. Bleeding gods, no sub- stance in his world or hers had ever felt so soft. He skimmed two fingers across her collarbone and rested them at the base of her throat, feeling the pulse of her heart beating through the delicate skin. He’d touched her there a dozen times in his dreams, but it didn’t compare to reality.
“Your heart rate is eighty beats per minute,” he said qui- etly, trying not to let his voice tremble.
“Why does that matt—”
“Shh. Don’t talk.”
With his other hand, he swept Cara’s silken hair out of the way, lightly brushing her neck with his fingertips. Her breathing hitched, and he paused for a moment, stunned by her reaction. Had she actually liked that? Was it possible she wanted him? There was only one way to find out. He nestled his cheek against hers, indulging in the feel of her bare skin. Keeping one hand at her throat, he flattened the other against her back, where heat radiated from beneath the thin fabric of her top. He stroked the length of her spine from top to bottom, his fingertips massaging, teasing, and trailing lightly, leaving her skin covered in goose bumps.

He whispered into her ear, “By monitoring our partner’s heart rate, we know how they’re reacting to our touch. The body doesn’t lie. This is the truest test of physical attraction. For example,” he said, stroking the base of her throat with his thumb, “your pulse is ninety beats per minute and increas- ing very quickly.” She did want him. He couldn’t believe it. The soft curves of her body rose and fell against him as the pace of her breathing accelerated, his own pulse quickening in response.
Aelyx brushed his lips back and forth against her ear and whispered, “One-ten now.” But he hoped they could do bet- ter than that. He continued to caress her back, pulling her body even closer to his and brushing his lips down her neck to the top of her shoulder. A quiet murmur escaped the back of her throat and fire pulsed through his veins. More. He wanted more. He traced his fingertips along the outline of her hip, continued across the top of her thigh, and then back up to her waist. Slipping his thumb underneath the bottom of her shirt, he stroked the warm skin of her lower back, then flattened his palm and pulled her hard against him. Her quick, erratic breaths tickled the side of his neck.
“One-thirty now,” he said in the faintest whisper.
It was too much. The most deliciously animalistic thoughts filled his head, and he knew he’d lose all control if this con- tinued a second longer. He abruptly removed his hands and stepped back before he did something he’d regret later. He gazed at Cara—sunset hair framing her scarlet-flushed cheeks, lips parted, eyes closed, lost in the moment. By the gods, she was exquisite. His heart swelled inside his chest. This human had captivated him, and her body’s response gave him hope that she felt the same way.
“I’d better stop.” He tried to hide his elation, but his face probably glowed like a neutron star. “I don’t want to send you into cardiac arrest.”

Two years ago, the aliens made contact. Now Cara Sweeney is going to be sharing a bathroom with one of them. Handpicked to host the first-ever L’eihr exchange student, Cara thinks her future is set. Not only does she get a free ride to her dream college, she’ll have inside information about the mysterious L’eihrs that every journalist would kill for. Cara’s blog following is about to skyrocket. Still, Cara isn’t sure what to think when she meets Aelyx. Humans and L’eihrs have nearly identical DNA, but cold, infuriatingly brilliant Aelyx couldn’t seem more alien. She’s certain about one thing, though: no human boy is this good-looking. But when Cara’s classmates get swept up by anti-L’eihr paranoia, Midtown High School suddenly isn’t safe anymore. Threatening notes appear in Cara’s locker, and a police officer has to escort her and Aelyx to class.  Cara finds support in the last person she expected. She realizes that Aelyx isn’t just her only friend; she’s fallen hard for him. But Aelyx has been hiding the truth about the purpose of his exchange, and its potentially deadly consequences. Soon Cara will be in for the fight of her life—not just for herself and the boy she loves, but for the future of her planet.