It's been a helluva week for Betsy Taylor. First, she loses her job. Then, to top things off, she's killed in a car accident. But what really bites (besides waking up in the morgue dressed in a pink suit and cheap shoes courtesy of her stepmother) is that she can't seem to stay dead. Every night she rises with a horrible craving for blood. She's not taking too well to a liquid diet.
Worst of all, her new friends have the ridiculous idea that Betsy is the prophesied vampire queen, and they want her help in overthrowing the most obnoxious, power-hungry vampire in five centuries - a badly dressed Bela Lugosi wannabe, natch. Frankly, Betsy couldn't care less about vamp politics, but they have a powerful weapon of persuasion: designer shoes. How can any self-respecting girl say no? But a collection of Ferragamos isn't the only temptation for Betsy. It's just a lot safer than the scrumptious Sinclair - a seductive bloodsucker whose sexy gaze seems as dangerous as a stake through the heart...
***2017 Summer Lovin’ Reading List ***
Before there was Molly Harper’s Nice Girls Don’t Have Fangs there was MaryJanice Davidson’s Undead and unwed. They feel somewhat related, but although I really enjoy Harper’s fiction, I think I have had enough of Davidson’s. The difference, for me, is in the main character. I can relate to Jane Jameson (Harper)—she’s educated, she’s a librarian/bookstore owner, she’s snarky and sometimes a bit neurotic, but always basically good-hearted. Betsy Taylor (Davidson) is another kind of woman entirely—she’s shallow, uneducated, unfocused, mouthy, selfish, and seemingly completely motivated by designer shoes. I’m sure there’s a target-market for Betsy out there somewhere, I’m just not it.
It’s not that she doesn’t get some good lines, like “I was the Queen who brought all the tribes together, who ruled them as one. Like the Speaker of the House, only way more blood thirsty. More Book of the Dead crap, which Tina had been reading to me all night. It was like attending Bible school in hell.” Or when she first meets Eric Sinclair, “His shoes were—whoa! Where those Ferragamos? It was a rare and wonderful thing to see a properly shod man in an underground mausoleum.”
The “humour” missed its mark for me as often as it hit. I felt the author was trying too hard. But, as I have often stated in my reviews, my comprehension of humour in print is challenged. I had to order this volume via interlibrary loan in order to read it, making feel that I had to finish the book to justify ordering it from another part of the province. I shan’t bother with further volumes.