It becomes apparent from the opening of The Half-Killed that Quenby Olson is a master of mimicking Victorian prose. I would wager that she is so good, so authentic, that she could fool the literati of the time. She sets up the prologue of The Half-Killed in second-person point of view, potentially the only clue that this isn’t a book written in the late 1800s, and it is an effective prologue in the sense that it introduces us to our protagonist, Dorothea Hawes, as a young girl witnessing the death of her family. It is a gorgeous and horrific scene, and sets a gripping tone that does not let up until the last page is turned - and only then can we again safely draw breath.

Olson’s prose never wanes, never dims, and is fluid and melodic throughout the entire novel. I have not read much, particularly in the fantasy realm, that matches it. It is poetry at times, so much so that it actually gets in the way of the story. In fact, one of my only real gripes with The Half-Killed is that its language is so descriptive and beautiful that it sometimes interrupts the pacing of the book. I found myself lost amidst passages, happily so, but then confused when the action of the plot regained its footing and needing to relocate my bearings. This is actually not a bad problem to have, but it does create problems for story.

That story revolves around a sweltering Victorian London, seized in an unnatural heat that dries up the Thames and causes even some of the stuffiest citizenry in the history of humanity to loosen a button or two. Thea, who had once used her talents as a supernatural medium to become a celebrity of London, has since fallen on typically hard times. In a period when the act of convening with the spiritual realm is both scandalous and popular, Thea stands out as one of the few practitioners who can actually do the deed. But it comes with a price - voices that constantly assail her and memories she wishes she could bury in her mental graveyard. It is only when Julian Chissick arrives on her doorstep, imploring her to help him find the killer of his recently murdered sister, that Thea is drawn back into a life and to people that she would rather forget. Naturally, this leads to a host of further problems and much more death.

Walking through Victorian London with Quenby Olson is a treat. This is an author who obviously loves this time period, cherishes it, but in loving it can also see its faults and point them out piece by piece to a reader. Victorian London is disgusting - particularly in unseasonable heat. There are no air conditioned parlors to escape to here, and the aforementioned moral stuffiness of the time means that one cannot simply throw on a pair of shorts instead of their proper gown or trousers. Olson turns this era, often depicted as glamorous and clean, into what it truly is - a dim horror. Candle wax seems to be on everything, the streets are lined with all manner of refuse and excretion, and the bodies of people, described in minute detail, verge on the grotesque. At the same time, The Half-Killed does manage to capture the romance of Victorian England. The interactions between the main characters, each genuine in their own way, is decidedly proper but yearning. And London is always London, no matter how dirty it gets. The attention to detail in The Half-Killed is extraordinary and exciting.

It’s amazing how much Olson gets right with this book. The humor is dry, like the parched bed of the Thames itself, but genuinely funny. “If she’s ever been in contact with a spirit,” Thea says of one character who fashions herself Britain’s Next Top Medium, “it’s never been more frightening than one she could mix into her afternoon tea.” Or, when speaking of a former suitor’s possibility of bearing children, Thea claims that, “he’s always been something of a child himself. For him to have a son or daughter of his own... I don’t think he’d relish the competition." The delivery here is pitch perfect, and it isn’t often that I take the time to write out quotes from books these days, but I found many of Olson’s one liners to be worthy of repeat. She also gets dialogue right, which is extremely hard to do, particularly when writing about a real-world time period. Characters talk in dialect, but there is no heavy-handed apostrophe work here. Rather, the author understands how speech patterns and word choice can invoke dialect better than any attempt at trying to out-muddle Irvine Welsh.

The only thing that keeps me from declaring The Half-Killed to be the perfect Victorian fantasy thriller is the ending. ***Spoilers to follow, so beware.*** There is a Fight Club-style ending to The Half-Killed that left me unsatisfied, and I wonder if that’s mostly on me for not really understanding this type of conclusion. In Fight Club, Tyler Durden is blasted out of the narrator’s head by a well-placed gun shot that leaves said narrator still alive. Something similar happens with The Half-Killed, but I couldn’t really figure out why, in either book, this left the protagonist alive. How does approaching death’s door drive out these dark passengers? Perhaps this is something Olson will explore in the next book, and she has plenty left yet to explain. A certain set of photographs and their larger implications is also left unresolved, and even the villain of The Half-Killed is never truly unveiled. Some of these are, again, good problems to have because it means an eventual sequel to this beautiful novel, and I am here for that.

Quill is a new type of fantasy for me, but one that I feel has been lacking in my life. I have a fondness for the colonial periods of our world history, despite the innumerable horrors inflicted upon native peoples during the imperialist rampage. There is a sense of adventure and discovery to this time period that is unique an era when humanity learned how to sail but had not yet discovered how to do it safely. The metaphorical unfurling of the world map must have been exciting in ways that perhaps future generations will feel about space travel. AC Cobble, in his first Cartographer book, captures this sense of adventure, but instills it with magic and floating islands and spirits, and it is a successful merging of these ideas. Quill has its fair share of flaws, some that niggled at me more than others, but on the whole, I think it is well worth reading, and I am eager to see where it goes.

Oliver Wellesley is a rake, albeit one with royal blood. When he isn't bedding nubile noble twins, he's out mapping the world, and to his credit he is good at his job (on both accounts). Oliver's father is the king of fantasy England, a land called Enhover, and it is apparent from the start that Cobble's world-building is strongly dependent on its parallels to our own. This was, in fact, such a strong component of the setting that I was worried it would reflect too much our own history. Thankfully, my initial misgivings were soothed and Cobble does eventually set his world apart. In structure, it very much looks like 18th century Europe, but there are enough details to give it its own flavor, and this is vital to this type of work.

The beginning of Quill begins with a grisly murder, and Oliver is called on to investigate it due to the noble personages involved. The Church of Enhover, a very Roman Catholic-like institution, sends its "Priestess" Samantha along with him. There is sorcery involved, and the Church's role in Cobble's world is one of stamping down the magic arts in favor of faith. There is an immediate repoire between Oliver and Sam, and though there are some banter-jokes between them that fall extremely flat (such as a joke about the title of Duke and whether it's a name or not), their relationship evolves into one of depth that is engaging to follow. They make a good team, and it isn't long before they are both wrapped up in a massive conspiracy involving the crown, the church, and the fate of sorcery itself.

I like quite a bit about Quill. It completely captures the adventurous spirit of the colonial age, to the point where I found myself smiling as characters would look out on the horizon at some new landscape, wishing I too were on that airship discovering new lands. The amount of exploration is limited to places that, at least, Oliver has already visited, but the spirit is there, and I hope to see more exploration in further novels in the series. Quill is set up as a murder mystery, but by the end it is clear that there is a larger story at work here, and Cobble has a multitude of options open to him in exploring his built world.

There are also aspects of Quill that I found difficult to stomach. Cobble calls the book sexy on his website, in comparison to his other works, but I found much of the sexual descriptions downright pornographic. I have no qualms with this, it just did not fit the rest of the narrative very well and felt disharmonic. The character of Sam is also consistently put down and derided, despite proving herself time and time again, and while I understand this is a novel set in an parallel era when women were seen as little more than objects, I still cringed every time someone called Sam "girl." It happens more times than I could count. And this is fantasy, a fantasy where a woman fairly easily becomes captain of an airship and where the clergy seem to be held in high esteem. Calling one of the main characters "girl" over and over again does not feel in line with the world. Aside from that, the writing itself is not without flaw, and there were many times throughout the book that I saw the absence of professional editing. It is self-published, but that isn't necessarily a free pass when it comes to mistakes and syntax errors.

As I said, I liked Quill, and I would read more of this world that Cobble is building (cobbling?). It strikes a nice balance between world-building and plot, and the main characters are genuinely likable and worth following. There are enough unique fantasy hooks to make this stand out, and the setting is almost untouched in the genre even if it remains very Euro-centric in its roots.

One of the first fantasy books I ever read was David Gemmell’s Legend. Legend is the story of a siege and a retired hero who comes down from his mountain retreat to sacrifice his life to hold that siege. It’s a titanic book, even at a mere 345 pages, and Druss would remain one of my fantasy heroes throughout my teenage years and beyond. City of Kings, like Legend, is a book about a siege, and it even boasts a very Druss-like character in the Black Thorn. Add a dash of Glen Cook and perhaps even a little Malazan, and you have a combination that screams at me. City of Kings is not quite the book that Legend is, for a variety of reasons, but it is well worth a read and echoes many of the best siege-fantasy novels of our time.

The description for City of Kings tells potential readers that while it is part of Rob J. Hayes First Earth series, it can be read as a standalone novel. I took this to heart because I have not yet read any other books from Hayes, and there’s no question that this can be read by itself. The plot details the Black Thorn and his partner Rose’s siege of Crucible, a city that stands as the last bastion for the vestiges of the land’s nobility who have holed up within the impenetrable fortress. Rose and the Black Thorn, whose apparent vendetta against those of noble blood has led them on a murder spree across the Wilds, are the heroes in this story where heroes are as anti as they come and there is a fine line between good and evil. Basically, everyone is bad.

This brings me to my first real critique of City of Kings, and it’s one that series fans will have no issue with. This is not a standalone novel. Rose and Black Thorn’s murder spree is something I would have loved to have more context with, and while I think Hayes does an admirable job characterizing his main players, I felt like I was missing out almost the entire time without any knowledge of their prior lives in previous books. This critique is also praise disguised because City of Kings is good enough that now I will be going back and discovering the rest of the series.

City of Kings is largely Rose’s book, despite its multiple viewpoint structure. Rose drives every action forward, and it is her will that puts the city of Crucible to siege. Every other character in the book is either a tool for Rose, or an antagonist. I liked Rose, despite not really knowing much about her or what drove her until around midway through the story. She is hard and world-weary and I could sympathize with her hatred of the nobility in the Wilds even though I’ve never been through what she’s been through. Hayes sells her motivations quite thoroughly. The Black Thorn, Rose’s husband and the father of her unborn child, shares her motivations and does the absolute most to get her what she wants. It is refreshing to read about an adult relationship without all the earth-shattering love and devotion so common in the genre. Rose and Thorn are real people, with distinct personalities and a wary respect for one another. There is more pragmatism than romance in their interactions, and I understand this all too well.

The format of City of Kings is possibly its greatest strength. This book tells of a siege, and this is the singular event of the entire novel. Everything takes place within a measured radius from the city of Crucible, and where other books might devote a few chapters to knocking down a city’s walls, Hayes gives it an entire book. Not even Legend could boast such a devotion to its event. I enjoyed this structure, even with the knowledge that I would have enjoyed it even more had I had more context for the world and characters. Hayes does a beautiful job constructing events in and around the city to flesh things out, while pacing the actual days of the siege in such a way that it never feels boring.

I have one real gripe with City of Kings, and I suspect it is one that will carry me through Rob J. Hayes’ other novels. I really dislike written dialect. Dialect is a real thing and including it in a novel is important and authentic. Writing out dialect as it sounds is a huge mistake, unless, like Irvine Welsh, it is an author’s schtick (and frankly most people can’t even read Welsh for this very reason). Seeing all the apostrophes and shortened words in dialogue distracts me from the story, particularly if I don’t feel that it’s done well. I really struggled with the dialect in City of Kings. I found myself hoping for viewpoints from characters who spoke clearly, and dreading the times when things would shift to a heavy dialogue portion from Thorn or Henry. This is likely something that doesn’t bother a lot of fantasy readers because the genre is plagued by written dialect, but if there’s a common thread among all the highest rated work, readers might find that very little of it suffers from this ailment.

Despite my one big issue, I liked City of Kings quite a bit and wanted to know more about this world that Rob J. Hayes has built. His writing is grim and gritty, and his descriptions of war and the battles played out within it are terrifying and moving. His characters feel real and worth knowing, even if I did have to wade through some of their insufferable dialect to get to know them. It’s an easy comparison to liken Hayes to Glen Cook or Joe Abercrombie, and fans of those big names will likely find City of Kings and its subsequent series a familiar and promising entry. But this is not a re-telling of the Black Company or The First Law. Hayes has his own voice, and it is one worth reading.

Sal the Cacophony is a hell of a character. I don't know that I've read her equal, though Monza Murcatto from Joe Abercromie's Best Served Cold is close. These deadly ladies share a few common characteristics, from their ability to extract death from the unlikeliest of circumstances, to their completely unforgiving and exacting attitudes towards any and every one. They are also hell-bent on revenge, blinders on and charging forward no matter how many cities burn. Where Sal differs is that she does soften her hardest edges with some of the funniest lines I've read in a book, let alone a fantasy book. She has a second-career as a stand-up should she ever find the life of vengeance and murder less satisfying.

Before I continue, Seven Blades in Black does have a story, and it's a good one. It might even be really good, but there's no doubt that Sal is the star of this show, and Sykes could probably entertain an audience by having her ride around on her chocobo (oops, I mean bird of course), shooting her gun in the air and breaking wind (and she basically does this a few times). Sal is a novel-carrier, which is unfortunate because it also means she has plot armor, which she wields to great effect during the course of Seven Blades. The narrative is told in the guise of a storytelling, with Sal explaining to a Revolutionary general named Tretta the events that have transpired over the past few weeks of her life. It is a clever bit of writing structure because it allows Sykes to get away with a few things that would otherwise break the narrative flow. Sal often refers to "you" in the writing, which in other first-person viewpoints would be immersion breaking, but because Sal is telling her story to a character in the book, and because those portions where Sal and that character interact are in the third-person, it works. It also allows for some extreme embellishment of the story. I'll explain that further.

Seven Blades in Black is a lot like an anime series. The characters are larger than life, the plot is world-shattering in scope, and the fight scenes are bombastic to the point of ridiculousness. Sal gets beaten up so much, tossed around so roughly, and is basically dead for so much of the novel that the suspension of disbelief becomes a little hard to swallow. That is, until you remember that she is telling a story to someone. It also helps that she is so full of herself throughout the novel, that any aggrandizing she does in that telling is completely believable. Like I said before, this is a neat trick of storytelling that, without much effort, allows Sykes to craft an over-the-top, completely ridiculous tale without his readers constantly rolling their eyes. Make no mistake, this is as action-movie as can be, and Sal is basically the fantasy equivalent of John Wick, but it works so well, and does precisely what it sets out to do, that almost all is forgiven.

The actual story is one of revenge. Like an older Arya Stark, Sal the Cacophony has a list, and her goal in life is to check off the names on that list. Unlike Arya, who in the A Song of Ice and Fire begins as a helpless child and becomes a remorseless killer, Sal starts off as one of the most deadly people in existence and has her power stripped away - thus why she wants revenge. Thankfully for Sal, at some point after her power is taken, she finds new power in the form of the Cacophony. The Cacophony is not just her namesake, but also an extremely powerful gun that shoots a variety of magical/alchemical bullets. The Cacophony is also a living weapon - it smiles at her often - and the relationship between Sal and the construct is one of the pivotal points in the novel. Rarely can a character exist without saying a word, but the Cacophony holds its own as a central figure in Seven Blades.

Sal is, ultimately, joined by a few other key figures in her quest for revenge. Liette is Sal's lover and also her personal Freemaker. Freemakers are half-sorcerer and half-alchemist, and Liette is the one who crafts ammunition for the Cacophony. She also serves as a moral compass for Sal, who might otherwise veer completely off the rails. She also manages to rope a Revolutionary named Cavric Proud into her madness, and Cavric is an even more moral compass due to his almost unbelievably pure ideology. The Revolution stands in opposition to an Imperium, and the short of that conflict is that the Imperium enslaved those without magic for ten-thousand years before the "nuls," as they are called, rose up and formed their own civilization. Sal was an Imperium but turned Vagrant, meaning she was cast out of all polite society, and begins the novel as the equivalent of an old West bounty hunter. A quick description of Sykes' world-building is, "what if the American Revolution was fought because one side had magic and the other had technology, and then there were lots of explosions and lots of death." Metaphorically, it's not far off the historically accepted truths of U.S. history. Sykes world also has bird mounts instead of horses.

I think Sykes has something special on his hands with this first in The Grave of Empires series. The entire book is truly a joy to read, with genuinely funny moments that got me more than a few weird looks in public and at home due to the maniacal cackle that they caused. Sal is one of the most memorable fantasy characters I have come across, and I am actually relieved that she has such impenetrable plot armor because she really is the kind of protagonist around which a series can revolve. The only advice I might give for going into Seven Blades in Black is not to expect something with the grace and pathos of The Lord of the Rings, but rather know that you're going to have a damned good time with a decent amount of pathos and almost no grace.

Kingshold is a difficult book for me to review. On paper, this book has everything I might want from a political fantasy - it's tinged with humor and features some common but welcome fantasy tropes. The cover is some of the most beautiful fantasy artwork I have ever seen, and were I to see this book on a shelf it would be jumping into my hands and off to the cash register. There is no doubt that D.P. Woolliscraft can market and design a novel, but the real question is - can he write a competent and captivating story? The answer is complicated.

The plot of Kingshold is solid. The King and Queen are dead, slain by the wizard, Jyuth, who holds the true power of the throne and has for centuries. Thankfully, for the people of Kingshold, he is mostly a beneficent ruler and tries not to take a hand in things too much. But when the aforementioned King and Queen start getting into some dark deeds, he decides the time has come for the end of monarchies in Kingshold. He declares that there will be an election, and that those who own property and are able to provide a refundable election fee will be allowed to choose the next ruler of Kingshold. This hearkens back to the early days of the United States government and its policies of allowing wealthy landowners to choose the leaders of the land - a step up from dynastic monarchies for sure yet still incredibly problematic for the working man and woman. Woolliscraft sets the stage well for a ridiculous election cycle (though one that still doesn't manage to out-ridiculous the U.S. elections).

The principle characters of Kingshold, and the eyes through which we see most of the novel, are many. In fact, nearly every early chapter brings in a new point of view, in true Game of Thrones style, and while the list eventually does end, it is a challenge to keep up in the beginning. Mareth is the central protagonist, a down and out bard whose drinking has taken over his once grand ambitions. He is helped along by Alana, maid to Lord Jyuth, and her sister Petra, as well as the trio of adventurers Motega, Florian and Trypp . Jyuth brings his adopted daughter and super-sorceress Neenahwi into the fray to round out the cast. The variety of personalities and the background of political fantasy that doesn't take itself too seriously is ripe for good reading.

But I have to be honest, much of the actual writing of Kingshold did not resonate with me. I love plot, and I love setting, but when I read fantasy it is the prose and the characters that need to capture me. This is part of the reason why I loved Richard Nell's book so much, and continue to love Robin Hobb and Guy Gavriel Kay every time I pick up one of their works. There is a simple serenity to the way these authors write, and they write characters that feel not only well-rounded, but authentic and in some cases fascinating. When I started Kingshold, I felt like I was jumping into the heads of characters who had already been introduced - that I was missing vital backstory to each of them. There is development among some of the protagonists, particularly with Mareth and Alana, but it is growth out of plot necessity instead of an organic way of maturing with the novel. Mareth doesn't really earn anything that he obtains in Kingshold. He stumbles along, mostly blind, and sings magic songs to woo people as he goes.

Kingshold also has a problem with exposition in that much of what we learn is simply told to us. Instead of allowing us to discover Kingshold through action and character interaction, we get narration about why things are they way they are. I really think Woolliscraft loves the city that he's built, and incidentally the world as well, and I understand the need to divulge all of the details that he's come up with - I just want to get those details in a more natural way. This is a problem that many self-published fantasy authors in particular struggle with, and even traditionally published authors slip it by their editors more than I would expect. And it's tough! It's not easy to show your world instead of tell it because it often feels like you're simply forcing yourself to show it when it's so much easier just to explain. But it makes for frustrating reading on my, the reader's, part because I like a sense of discovery, whether its for the world or the characters, and much of Kingshold felt like I was reading a travel guide.

Kingshold is a difficult book to review - I'll repeat that. It's a book that deserves praise for what it attempts. There is a clear love of fantasy at work here, and an attempt to show how inane and silly election cycles are through satirical fiction. I could not be more sympathetic to an effort like this given what the U.S. and the U.K. are going through with their respective governments. This book is a hopeful one, claiming that it is possible to rise above the commercial conceits and greed and create a potentially lasting change that benefits people instead of the dragons sitting on their piles of gold. I just wish I had a better time reading about it. I will keep an eye out for Woolliscraft's future work, despite not falling in love with Kingshold. I think there is potential here, but it's going to take some work to rise out of the fantasy horde sitting on the shelves today.

Opening Thoughts: I can not start a review of this book without mentioning the cover because it is one of the best I've seen on any piece of literature. It is a work of art, but also immensely evocative of what the book is about - right down to the size of the dragon and the circular nature of the journey of the ship. It might be the perfect cover. I wish the book matched up, and it is unfortunate to say this, but the best thing about The Flight of the Darkstar Dragon is what's on the front.

Setting: I think world-building and creating a stage is Benedict Patrick's greatest skill. Though I've only read a short story set in his Yarnsworld setting, it is clear that he has a talent for crafting intriguing and unique worlds. Darkstar is no exception. There is mention made of a home planet (full of pirates!) that the characters originate from, but events from the very start take place in what is called the Darkstar Dimension. This is a world that is almost completely water, and that defies our known properties of physics. The world is circular, much like our own, but instead of traveling around its outside as we do on Earth, the denizens of the Darkstar Dimension seem to travel upon its inner curve. The world is smaller, and so this is more apparent from the start when the characters quickly realize that they are almost entirely surrounded by water. Residing in this Dimension is the Darkstar itself, a massive violet orb that seems to suck in all magic that comes into its proximity. And attached to the Darkstar is a dragon the size of an island.

Despite the strength of this setting, it also comes with a host of problems. One such issue is the consistency of the rules that seem to be in place. My main concern while reading was one of scale. The dragon is said to be so large that its teeth are the size of towers, which is indeed gargantuan. But this creates confusion to the point where I was never sure how large anything was in the book. The dragon lands in the water at one point, which to my mind would create tidal waves the size of skyscrapers or quite literally shake the Dimension itself, but that does not happen. Every time the dragon interacted with anything, I was only confused at what was happening and wondering why other things weren't happening. Fantasy is a genre full of weird occurrences and magical phenomena, but not adhering to some type of physical rule will hamper any writing.

Plot: Darkstar opens with a transition into the Darkstar Dimension. The entire crew of the Melodious Narwhal, a flying ship led by a fresh naval academy officer named Min, blacks out and is suddenly in a new dimension with a ship that is rapidly losing altitude. They crash into a body water and eventually meet an old hermit who has his own floating turtle island. This is a situation ripe for drama, and indeed there are a score of mutinies and rebellions on all sides. The notion that the Darkstar Dimension is a kind of hub world for other realms is quickly introduced, and from there one can imagine the infinite possibilities awaiting the crew of the Narwhal. However, their ship is inoperable due to the negative influence of the Darkstar on any kind of magic, and so they are beached.

Again, there is host of possibility with this plot. Patrick creates a space of imagination. The ability to travel from world to world, exploring new places that might be completely at odds with what is known, is exciting. However, 90%, maybe more, of Darkstar takes place in the Darkstar Dimension, which is itself kind of a boring place. There is a lot of water and a huge dragon, but once he has exhausted those resources, there is not much else to explore aside from his characters. The few times that some of those characters do venture into other realms feels stunted and random and not as satisfying as inter-dimensional travel should be.

Character: I could have accepted a standard plot and an underused setting had there been better characterization in Darkstar. The main character is one who, on paper, I should love. Min is a strong-willed and capable woman, young, but energized to be a good leader to her crew. This is actually the type of character I am most drawn to, but I never liked Min. There is something about her that feels hollow, and I wish I could put my finger on what that is. For one, she is arrogant and the arrogance continues even after she has a realization of it as a flaw. She is also reckless and projects confidence without actually feeling it. Her motives seem pure, but her actions never back them up. She has almost no growth throughout the novel, and if I compare her in the beginning to who she is in the end, there is no discernible difference.

Min is joined by a crew of varied perspectives. Abalendu is her antagonist, a noble born passenger intent on finding a legendary land called Glimmerwrought, and he is a constant thorn in the sides of every other character. He is one-dimensional and shows no signs of redemption and the novel is worse for his presence. Zoya is his bodyguard, and of any of the characters I might have liked her the best had her decision making ever made any sense. She has divided loyalties that are unclear and cloudy and she is frustrating to read. Brightest, one of the few inhabitants of the Darkstar Dimension and the crew's guide to its mysteries, is intriguing to a point, but mostly comes off as comical and slightly doddering despite his enormous bag of tricks. Perhaps the most frustrating part of the characterization on the whole is the lack of any voice that differentiates any of the characters. If I were to read this without character tags, and you asked me to identify who was speaking at which point, I would have no answer. They all talk the same, have similar mannerisms, and very little to distinguish themselves outside of their appearance.

Parting Words: On the whole, I went into Darkstar with fairly high expectations and was quickly underwhelmed and then gradually disappointed over and over. The disappointment largely stems from the very clear ability of Benedict Patrick to imagine a world that a reader would want to explore. The Darkstar Dimension is one ripe with possibility, and I suspect that in further books Patrick plans to explore those possibilities. But I can't see myself returning to this particular series because the first book has left such a bad impression on me. There is no amount of exploration that will captivate a reader if there aren't good characters to traverse it with or polished, concise prose to take pleasure in. There were things I appreciated about this book, but they are largely overshadowed, and that is a shame.