[Review by Annie Dean]
Grade: C

When I first saw this book, sent to me for review, I thought, Oh Christ, not another one. The world needs another vampire series the way I need to stop at Dunkin Donuts. The cover art is hot, though. The chick on it is sexy. I’d totally do her if I had two or three Margaritas under my belt and I wasn’t married.

I’m deeply conflicted about this book. I liked Dawn, the heroine and the writing showed occasional sparks of life that made me smile. It had awesome potential. I mean, one of the main characters is a midget. A psychic midget! How cool is that? And then there’s the hypnotic Voice that does crazy Vulcan mindsex with Dawn, so she comes in her panties every fourth page. Okay, maybe I exaggerate a little.

Dawn isn’t your typical heroine. She’s an adrenaline junkie who works as a stuntwoman and she uses sex in the same way. She doesn’t date, she just likes to fuck. It’s a recreational sport for her, which is quite different from the Madonna / Whore thing that most romance novels have going. I should be clear, though, this is not a romance. The book is weirdly erotic via the crazy Vulcan mindsex, but there’s no hero in the truest sense of the word (although I was rooting for Kiko. Why aren’t there more midget heroes in romance? That’s discrimation, I tell you! I’m writing somebody a letter.)

[Ed. Note: Well, you keep calling ‘em midgets. They prefer the term “little people,” you insensitive bitch.]

So Dawn returns to LA from a movie shoot to find her dad, Frank, missing. They had a weird relationship and are none too close, but apparently he started working as muscle for this enigmatic group of private investigators. Yep, that’s how she meets the midget and the Voice. It was all very Charlie and Bosley from Charlie’s Angels except Charlie never rogered Sabrina with his mental phallus (well, maybe in fan-fiction he did, I’ll Google it later). She’s drawn into this underworld that includes vampires and undead child actors (which explains Macaulay Culkin. Tell me he doesn’t look creepy in that pic, I dare you.) Dawn never seems to question what’s going on, though, and she’s just along for the ride, no matter how far from shore shet gets.

However, despite an interesting heroine, this book bored the shit out of me. We don’t need another vampire series and Ms. Green doesn’t do much to develop her vampires. Nothing on social status, nothing about the way their world works. The worldbuilding in this sucks ass. Now I realize it’s a series, but she could’ve laid the groundwork. As it stands, I do not care enough about this series to read another book, not even if somebody gives it to me. I can’t rate it an F because the writing is fine. The story is just comatose, which is fitting, I guess, since it’s about the undead.

The writing isn’t bad; like I said, she shows sparks now and then. I think the problem is, she wrote to the market. Ms. Green probably figured, “Vampires sell, so I’ll write about vampires.” Well, she’s right. The book sold, but I’ve had more fun watching my cats play tag than trying to wade through this story. I’m sorry, honey, this thing is DOA, not even the angry midget could save it.

Y’all, you can buy this book here.

Grade: B

Wrath, Rhage, Zsadist… and Butch! Whoa, whoa, back up. Yes, I just said Butch. Don’t worry, kids, he gets his own little fake-goth name… but more on that later! You know, as I read this book, I asked myself every other page why JR Ward would give the little human back-up dancer a story of his own. I mean, there’s still Vishous and Tohrment and Rehvenge and Ohdour and Vhomit and Dhisgust and Hherphes (ah, crap, it doesn’t work with words that start with an H)! But by the end of this book, I was sold. Seriously. Okay, I was still laughing and rolling my eyes, but I bought it anyway. This entry to the series tells us Why We Should Love Butch, but also acts as a Saks Fifth Avenue catalogue. Yes, the brand-names with which Ms. Ward liberally sprinkles her books are now accompanied by price tags. (I was wondering how much a Ralph Lauren Black Label suit jacket costs and now I know!) If I had to be frank with y’all, this book is probably the most poorly written one in the series: the dialogue is still heavily peppered with euphemisms that are outright ridiculous and sometimes non-sensical, Butch evolves into THE ULTIMATE MARTY SUE, and the “lessers,” the villains, inexplicably get more airtime and only serve to show us how useless and boring they really are (their boss, the Omega does something pretty scary in this book, though). Fortunately, it’s also the most fun to read because 1) the sex is hot 2) the virgin heroine, a majorly spineless wimp in the previous books, is probably the most developed female character in this testosterone-charged ‘verse, 3) the sex is hot. I’m going to try to review this book with as little spoilers as possible, but if a little something-something slips here and there, you can write me an email and flame me, I promise.

Note: We finally get an explanation why Vishous and Butch seem soooooooo in luuuuuuuuuuuurve.

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Grade: B+
I feel I must include a bit of a disclosure (disclaimer?) to this review. I love Meljean. It’s not a true lesbian love-fest and I’m not about to leave my one true lurve for her or anything (though if she ever became Nora Roberts-rich and was willing to support my bratty ass, I might), but I think the world of her. In fact, I consider her a good friend. We’ve shared geek laughs, drooled over the same geek boys (mostly over Bruce Wayne and Jesse Custer), and once, we even shared a chocolate mousse cupcake thingey without stabbing each other’s hands with forks. Now that’s fucking friendship, dude. Anyway, I’m going to try to keep my personal bias out of this review, but some fangirlishness might seep through in the vein of, “Like OMG, I totally KNOW her! Like, for real and stuff!” In fact, I wasn’t sure I should review this book because Meljean’s my buddy. It’s the reason I read but no longer review my friend and personal asskicker, Lilith Saintcrow. Plus I’ve had horrible experiences reviewing authors who are also friends (some of them ain’t my friends no’ mo’). BUT. Yes, BUT. You guys, this is her FIRST BIG BOOK and I wanted to get the word out on it. YOU SHOULD BUY AND READ THIS BOOK and I’m not just saying that because I think she looks like Julie from Growing Pains and I have a bit of a girl-crush on her. It’s good shit. Period. For real. And don’t worry. Friend or foe, I give fair and balanced reviews and not in a Fox News way, either. No more “eeee! she’s my friend!” gushing from here on out.
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Grade: A+
Goddamn, I love this book. Sure, it’s sacrilegeous, seemingly controversial on purpose, incendiary, and a little over the top, but there’s just something about this Garth Ennis graphic novel that hooked me from page 1. It’s like the Davinci Code except it has sex, gory violence, mayhem, intrigue, blue streak cussing, real characters with heart, mothafuckin’ Arseface!, oh and it’s not boring as all hell. I don’t know about y’all, but that sounds like a rollickin’ good time to me. If that’s not enough to reel you in, there’s also Steve Dillon’s art work: crazy, colorful, visceral, eye-popping, gritty… I cannot find the words to describe this man’s work without sounding like a creepy fan girl. The combination of Garth Ennis’s tour de force (yes, I did just type that), dark-as-night, yet-true-to-heart storytelling combined with Steve Dillon’s beyond brilliant artwork just puts this series way and above any graphic novel I have read in the last fucking ten years. Yes, I am a Garth Ennis fan girl, but you know what? I’m totally cool with that. I mean, how can you NOT love a book with a character called The Saint of Killers?
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Grade: A

I’m one of those readers who’s pretty good at figuring out the killer after only a few chapters (some of us can knit, some can play the piano with their toes, I’m mothafucking Columbo, yo). Sometimes I can pinpoint the killer from reading the back blurb. It can be really frustrating to know the identity of the killer from the first few chapters and have to wait for the main character to catch up with you. With this book, Mr. Lindsay very helpfully provides us with the identity of the killer on page one. Darkly Delicious Dexter. Deftly Discerning Dexter. Deviantly Delightful Dexter. Our Dementedly Dashing Dexter is a serial killer in the vein of Patrick Bateman, except he’s… well, he’s a very nice guy. And he only kills people who “deserves” killing. Oh, and Bret Easton Ellis is a pretentious one-note hack and an asshole. Though Dexter is a chillingly unemotional sociopath and enjoyed killing small furry animals as a child, I instantly liked him. He’s charming, clever, funny, and… well, he’s really nice. He’s the kind of guy you’d see on the news and be surprised at how handsome and harmless he looks even though he has killed 36 people. There would be neighbors saying, “I am just absolutely devastated. He just seemed so… nice.” But Dexter is a monster. Sure, he’s the kind of monster you’d want to tie up and lick all over, but he’s still a monster. A hot, gorgeous, murdering one. Not that this book is perfect or anything. Lindsay seems to delight in reminding us that Dexter is craaaaazy. Yes, Dexter is crazy. That’s why he’s a serial killer. We get it, yes. Thank you, Mr. Lindsay. If you hadn’t told us a hundred times in a row that Dexter is a loon, we never would have gotten it. What, Dexter’s crazy? You don’t say! I was also a little confused as to why Dexter speaks in the vernacular of a 19th century English schoolmarm. Can anyone explain this to me?

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