Death, on sabbatical from their grim-reaping day-job, takes on human form as a thirty-something woman and becomes embroiled in a murder mystery in this thrill-ride of a book. There's much pleasure in the ingenious plot, blending fantasy, crime and romance, while balancing humour and threat of apocalypse throughout. Despite it's millennia-old main character, every sentence feels pacy, fresh and sparkling. Who knew Death could be so life-affirming?
Humans and me, it's complicated. I've never really understood them. But you know, we're stuck with each other, so I've tried. Can't say the same for them - just look at their images of me. Over the millennia they've come up with a few ideas, and the one thing all of those have in common is that none is complimentary. They worst is me as a skeleton, usually in a black potato sack. If I'm lucky, I get a scythe. Who would ever run around like that? First, it's insensitive: the process is scary enough for people, so do you really think I would choose to dress like a psychopath on the job? Second, style: fashion has changed so much over millennia, from loincloths to ballgowns, and apparently, I'm still in the black sack.
