November 9th, 2012


Aaronovitchus Rex 3

The Sweet Scent of Blood.
Suzanne McLeod was another of those reminders that however original you think you are somebody else has already arrived and grabbed all falafel off the buffet table. Although in Suzanne's case she ran off with the kitchen sink as well.
No, she *threw* the kitchen sink into the book. This is fantastic London with fae and vampires and satyrs and brownies and vampires and goblins and (healer) dragons and vampires and witches and selkie and vampires and naiads and Sidhe-- but only one Sidhe in the whole of London, our heroine, because the Irish evidently don't come to England unless they're vampires, and in that case we have three of them, all speaking stage Irish, as well as their blood-bonded leprechaun. In a charming hommage to Pratchett, we have concerned fatherly troll policemen, plural. Also vampires. Did I mention the vampires? There are blond English vampires who are real lords and dark-haired eastern vampires who taste of Turkish Delight and French vampires unfortunately called Louis who speak stage French. And goth vampires and thug vampires and even zombie vampires dear god; and all of them want our heroine because she's sidhe- well, half-sidhe-- and sidhe taste so much better than humans.

Alas, our heroine is a ditz. Her identifying verbal marker is '*So* not a good idea' or '*So* not what I wanted.' Ditz is supposed to be able to handle trouble, but any vampire can make her sag and swoon and melt with lust. I'm told this is a mark of vampire novels, which reminds me why I don't read vampire novels. Though now I see *why* there are vampire novels-- romances are no longer allowed to have heroines who are putty in the hands of violent and abusive men. But with vampires, hell, it's not their fault, right? It's the vampire venom wot done it.
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