This was....Ok. That's what two stars means, yeah? Ok? Yeah. Ok.

In theory this should have been a home run. And it's one of those situations where you finish a book, and can't decide if the lack of appreciation for it is the book's fault, or your own. But the book can't fucking review ME, so here we are.

I had a couple of problems with this book, that kept pushing me outside the enjoyment area and into the 'tolerate because it's not quite bad enough to DNF' area:
1) the main character. Whether the now-Phoebe, or the then-Phoebe....gawd what a whiny mind to have to inhabit.
2) the horror: Where's it at? At best, the book gets slightly discomfiting. I was hoping for some real body horror, but the prose was so flowery and vague, the part really fell short for me.

I look through the reviews and see that I'm in the minority on my feelings about this novel. So maybe it WAS me. All I know is that I've scraped the oxidized, depressing residue of this book from under my nails, and I'm ready to move on.