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So imagine my surprise when I realize I am reading the first in the series, and I still feel like an outsider.

It’s another when you are still thinking, “Huh?” thirty pages into the book and are annoyed that you’re being treated by the author as a gate crasher at the exclusive club of her fiction.

It’s one thing if you’re reading Sweet Valley High and have to go through the introduction of who the eternally perfect Wakefield twins are. But novels that are part of a series, or involve recurring themes and sets of the same characters or family members, yet are expected to also stand alone as individual fiction should damn well stand on their own and not lean on the books alongside it. I understand that trilogies are beginning-middle-end of a larger story arc and I understand that to best appreciate them, I should start at the beginning. Normally, if I weren’t congested and cranky, I would be more diplomatic: “Perhaps it is because I entered in what is obviously the middle of a series.” “Perhaps I am missing some of the key plot elements because it is a series and I didn’t start with the beginning.” “Perhaps I am not in the mood right now for paranormal romping.” Like when I tried to read “Outlander” and couldn’t get through the melodrama. I have the feeling that yet again I have stumbled into the middle of the much-loved and long-adored series – and once I give a big hearty, “WTF?!” folks will come out of the woodwork to tell me how very, very wrong I am. That last one is what gets me with the book I just finished, “Night Pleasures” by Sherrilyn Kenyon, part of the Dark-Hunter series. I am close to calling the strip mine of vampire romance closed because there are no more gems to be found in this post-Buffy world.

I hate plotlines that are so over-mined for originality that they are predictable. I hate stupid heroes and stupid heroines.ģ. I’m going to bust out the cranky and let you all in on some things I hate when I read romance of any genre.ġ. So I’m in a pretty foul mood, and I probably shouldn’t write a review in this magical state, but to hell with it. So I sit and cough and sneeze and make disgusting wet noises with my throat and wish I could go home and snork and wheeze in the privacy of my own home with my own dog who doesn’t care if I make nasty old people noises so long as I rub his belly while I do it. Moreover, I am cranky because being sick is the suck and I can’t figure out the right combination of pharmaceuticals to at least hide my symptoms. I have more phlegm than I care to think about, and I am over being tired.