Having read and reviewed numerous vampire novels over the past decade, I was getting used to the light reading that these books have become; something to leaf through on the subway or over lunch, with characters and plots quickly forgotten once the last page was finished.
Granted, there are a number of good reads among the stacks of mediocrity, but I find that in general, vampire stories of late seem have the same simple characters, predictable plots, topped with a mix of blood, sex, and violence, adding gloss to stories that are barely worth telling. Surprised was I, then, when I read
Incarnadine: The True Memoirs of Count Dracula: Volume One. Not only did it challenge my perception of the most iconic character in vampire literature, it also reassured my faith that there is still room for true works of art within this genre.