#11--Magic Strikes, by Ilona Andrews

Urban fantasy, particularly any variety can that can be summed up by, "So-and-so is a kick-ass woman who's totally different from all those other kick-ass women because she's got this one cool power no one else has called yet has to solve a mystery/murder/other crime and probably fall in love along the way, or at least get laid," has become a sub-genre that I love to hate. Partially it's because the market is saturated right now. Partially it's because so many of them seem like retreads following the paths of Diana Tregarde and Anita Blake. Most of them take place in a world where the normal person doesn't know anything about magic for an assortment of reasons, and half the time when I see the cover or read the blurb on the back, I kind of quietly gag and slide the book back into place on the shelf.

So why do I keep reading books that fall under that description? Because about half the time, even if it isn't a great book, it's still a fun read, and the other half the time, I feel like whoever is in charge of writing those blurbs on the backs of the books needs their ass kicked. And occasionally I pick up a book that rises above the genre conventions to give me something I really, truly enjoy.

I came across the Kate Daniels books because I've made a habit out of scanning the shelves at the bookstores for new authors. I stumbled across Magic Bites not long after it first came out and picked it up. I'll give any new author at least two books to really hook me unless the first book is really terrible. Magic Bites left me keeping an eye out for Magic Burns, and that second book left me more than eager for this third one.

I'm actually hesitant to describe much of the plot simply because boiling it down into a few quick sentences cannot do it justice. Anything I can write will probably leave anyone--fan of the genre or hater of the genre--rolling their eyes. The problem is, on reading, this book rises above the stereotypes with excellent characters, a tight, engaging plot, and an enjoyably unique world. Ilona Andrews knows her folklore and mythology. She does her research, and she does an admirable job of weaving it into the fabric of her world and her characters without disrupting them to show off how smart she is.

If you're looking for an engaging read, I definitely recommend these books. Each stands alone very well, but it's worth starting from the beginning. If the first book doesn't impress you overmuch, give it through the second, because I've found them to grow in depth, breadth, and craft.

I'm going to look forward to the 4th book in this series, and Ilona Andrews has a new series starting soon. I know I'm going to be snapping that up as soon as it's out, too.

Coming up next: At the Bottom of the Garden: A Dark History of Fairies, Hobgoblins, Nymphs, and Other Troublesome Things

#9--Turn Coat, by Jim Butcher

Ah, the Dresden Files. I owe my enjoyment of this series to my father, whose book recommendations I should really listen to more often.

I'll admit I didn't pick up the Dresden Files until really late in the game expressly because the Anita Blake series burned me badly enough to turn me off of urban fantasy. But my dad pushed a copy of Dead Beat off on me a couple of years ago, and I finally read it, even though it took place late in the series.

Then I bought every single book available up until that point and devoured them. I had Turn Coat pre-ordered months ago, and when I received it on Friday, I sat down and started reading, and finished it on Saturday. I so very much appreciate that this series is up to book 11, and rather than turning to shit or devolving into porn, the groundwork for an overarching plot laid out from the very first book is building up and turning extremely rewarding.

For the uninitiated, Harry Dresden is a wizard. Seriously. And he's a professional and everything--he advertises in the phone book and works primarily out of Chicago. Each book more or less follows one of his cases, and they are all written in a way that you could pick up any single one and read it as a standalone without missing out on anything important. I still recommend you start from the first one and work your way up, just because you'll get more out of each one if you have the groundwork from what came before.

Besides, after reading Dead Beat, I spent the whole damned series waiting for Mouse, Thomas, and Butters only to have them appear a book or two before the one I'd started with.

For most of his life, Harry has been persecuted by Morgan, a warden (a wizard cop, so to speak) for some misbehavior from his youth. There's been nothing Morgan would have loved more than to chop off Harry's head (in a very literal sense). He's a stick-up-the-ass, rules following asshole with no room for compromise in his moral code, and Harry totally chaps his ass.

So one day Harry gets a knock on the door, and there's Morgan, bleeding to death and begging for help. He's been framed for the murder of a White Counsel member, and the other wardens are on his ass.

Since Harry's gotten a taste of what it's like to be wrongly accused and almost executed for crimes he didn't commit, and because he suspects there's something a whole lot bigger at play inside the White Counsel, he takes the case.

And it make for a really fun, quick read.

It's not perfect, of course. Harry's chauvinist pig attitude at times makes me want to kick him, and he keeps refusing to learn important lessons that have been taught to him more than once (like keeping your friends in the dark about important things can and will get them killed). And his long asides sometimes remind me of something mentioned in the Glossary of Terms Useful in Critiquing Science Fiction:

Expository lump. A chunk of exposition that, whether or not relevant to the plot, is insufficiently integrated into the story being told. As such, is seems to come from left field, as if a page from an encyclopedia accidentally got shuffled in. Asimov is famous for these. A subheading, known as "I've Suffered For My Art (And Now It's Your Turn)" occurs when the author, having done masses of boring research, proves this by unloading them on the stunned reader.

Sometimes they're amusing, sometimes they make me want to shake either Harry or Jim Butcher and beg them to just get back to the damned story already.

Still, it was more than enjoyable enough, and I'll be looking forward to book 12.

Up next: Let the Right One In

#6--Blood Noir, by Laurell K Hamilton

This book opened with one brief chapter of talking/whining/angsting, and immediately moved on to three straight chapters of sex.

I don't care how many people are involved, how many different positions they go through, and whether or not they're drinking blood and/or shifting into different animals: there is never, ever an excuse for a description of fucking to go on longer than a chapter.

So, why did I read this dreck?

Because once upon a time, the Anita Blake series did not suck.

No, seriously.

I started reading around the time the third book, Circus of the Damned, was released, and I still maintain that the second book, The Laughing Corpse, was the best of the series. Laurel Hamilton had found her voice, and the editors were still willing to do their damned jobs, Anita was still adamant that she didn't date monsters, she killed them, and it produced a really enjoyable mystery/action story with plenty of literal monsters of the human and inhuman kind. If you like the Dresden Files, you'll probably really enjoy the early Anita Blake books.

However, if you haven't started on them, all I can say is: Don't! Save yourself now!

Holy flying, fucking werewolves, did these books ever start to suck.

Why am I still reading? Because I was duped into caring about the characters back when they didn't suck. This is, however, the very first series to go from books I'd check out from the library to books I'd purchase as soon as they were released to books I'll eventually read when I pick up a used copy on the cheap at the local Friends of the Library book sale.

Which is exactly how I ended up with my copy of Blood Noir, and if it weren't for the fact that my $2 went to support my favorite library system, I'd be whining about being ripped off.

This particular time around, Anita finds out that Jason (werewolf, friend, occasional fuck buddy, and Jean Claude's regular food) has to go home to see his dying son of a bitch father (because there is not a single character in this entire series who has a good relationship with their family, as though Mrs. Hamilton has somehow determined that you can't be interesting unless you've got the appropriate tragic back story to go along with it). There is much whining from all the other men in her life, but she still packs up and flies off to meet the family.

Blah, blah, confrontations with family, blah, more sex, blah, lots of whining and personality deconstructing, blah, blah, lots more sex we at least don't have to read about, blah, blah, the plot finally shows up and people die.

There was actually considerably less sex in this book than in the last few, and we're at least blessedly spared the two day fucking marathon (which, had it been described in the usual manner, would have made the book at least four times as long and sixteen times more unbearable).

I'm so sick of this series, and I'm not sure why I'm still compelled to pick them up. Anita Blake is a detestable woman--she's selfish to an absolute fault, even when it's come to her attention that she's somehow hurting someone she'd have you believe she cares about. She'll only act to fix the problem when and if she decides she can 'handle' it, and she's obsessed with having the moral high ground, even when she's lying on her living room floor in the sticky leavings from her most recent round of sex with a minimum of two men. which is always accidental. How many times can you accidentally fuck multiple men before it's not really an accident anymore? I swear to God, this woman can no longer cross a room without tripping and landing on a dick. And the men surrounding her are their own special breed of pussy whipped (a phrase I find contemptible, but highly appropriate in this one case).

And the sex is mind-bogglingly boring. Or maybe I just have an abnormally high tolerance for violent vampire and lycanthrope group sex. Have you seen what's lurking in the depths of fanfic.net? Forget the furries. Once you've read Dumbledore topping Hagrid, you can handle anything.

Also, I absolutely love psychoanalyzing my characters. I totally corner hapless friends into discussions involving characters they've somehow been involved with, and it does help me work out all kinds of issues and smooth out personalities and all the ticks and quirks that go along with them. But all of that needs to happen in the background, where it's reflected on the page in actions, words, and deeds, not agonizingly poured over by the characters themselves.

I wanted to say that with a competent editor wielding a machete, this could possibly have been chopped into shape, but I'm not sure that would be true. This could maybe pass as a novella or a short story, and I think there were all kinds of details that fell by the wayside that could have better served the story itself (Jason only saw his dad twice? Really? There was a possible war between vampire masters of cities, and it was barely mentioned? Spoiler--a master of a city freakin' died and it barely gets a mention in the final wrap up? What the fuck? Endeth Spoiler).

At this point, Anita Blake can go fuck a duck (she's already doing a swan, so it's not too far out of point).

I need a drink and a good book.

Next up: Maledicte.