I picked up this book on a whim. By the time I was a quarter of the way into this novel, I knew I had to finish it. Could the author keep writing at the same level of tripe throughout? Could the book really be that pointless? I didn't think it was possible. Well, I was wrong. The author kept producing meaningless and often contradictory garbage right up to the end. The plot is so thin as to beggar description, it is simply a few vignettes that serve to act as conduits for the next scene where we have a description of what happens when a Carpathian and a woman truly love each other. The writing is hot, steamy, wild, throbbing, creamy, voluptuous ... sorry. The book is too close to me as I'm writing this, and excess adjectives keep spilling over. The characters, when they aren't contradicting their fundamentals, are paper thin. If "Carpathians" are so powerful, able to change shapes, create clothes out of nothing, and run for miles at high speeds without tiring, how come they sweat like pigs over a simple cleanup job? (Yes, I know. They're guys, and afraid of anything that looks like work.) The plotting is slow: painfully, tantalizingly, seductively ... sorry again. (I'll move the book away from the desk.) Actually, it's glacial, reminding one of the "Mary Worth" or "Rex Morgan" comic strips, where a simple conversation can take weeks to complete. It's hard to think that constant descriptions of, well, that kind of activity can get boring. But after a while you just start to think, oh, no, they're at it again. Can't you two just settle down and get on with the turgidly slow story so we can all go home?

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