Butcher, Jim (Storm Front)

This is pretty much the pulpiest pulp I've read in a long while. It should be clear to anyone reading this that the writer is completely homegrown, ie, has he even taken a writing class? By the end, I got extraordinarily tired of "oh, I'm going to die" - 4 paragraphs on that - and then the obvious "oh, wait, I forgot about using that [insert magical device]! good, now I'm not going to die."

I understand the series gets better. But will I stick around to find out? I love fantasy, but this guy seems to have ridden in on the coattails of Ms. Rowling and then followed in the footsteps of Ms. Evanovich. I see the basic appeal, but there isn't much that's actually, well... clever, here.

In the end, my biggest pet peeve is that it's like reading a giant game of Zork. He stands outside a house. The curtains are drawn. He has a bad feeling. He sees a film canister on the ground. He wonders how it got there. He walks around the house. He sees a faery. Ugh. I'd rather play the game.