Yeah. This is never, ever going to be my favorite. I can appreciate that, and I can step back from my own emotional turmoil and my personal feelings about it, and appreciate the gifted story that Butcher tells.
I can also be petty and grumpy and hate a lot of it.
If my heart hadn't already been ripped from my chest in Changes, Murphy in this book was enough to shred what little bit I had left. Shredded. Decimated. And, as ever, laughing while I cried.
It meandered a little too much for me, and rambled a lot too much on the descriptions in places.
I can also hate, desperately, what I sense coming and knowing I'm going to get even more pissed off.
Fitting, I think, that my 100th read of the year ends on a love-hate reaction.