I got this book by Melissa de la Cruz because the idea sounded fascinating: vampires masquerading as the New York City elite socialites. One girl — Schyler — who normally doesn’t fit in at her prep school all of a sudden finds herself in the middle of the whole affair; add a murder of a classmate, and you’ve got an interesting book.
Except you don’t.
It was so crowded with litanies of who’s wearing what that there wasn’t any room left for a storyline. Why do I care that Bliss is wearing Prada sling back heels? Or that Schyler’s in a vintage black lace dress and “the skirt blossomed out at the hips like a graceful bell held aloft by a layer of tulle petticoats”? I don’t. I want plot. And characterization. And something interesting to happen. And in the spaces where there weren’t some sort of clothing list, there was tabloid adventure liberally spliced with name dropping. “They were like the Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie of Duschene.” So freaking what?
I bailed at 110 pages. And that was too much of this book.