I picked up a copy of Shifting Fates, by Meredith Clarke on one of its Amazon freebie days.

Here’s the thing, I need you to believe monsters are real.

But ask me that question, and I’ll tell you the truth. No, it’s not possible. The more believers out there, though, the busier I am at night booking walking ghost tours in New Orleans’ French Quarter. I like giving tours, love them actually. I was born to do this—well, I thought I was until I met him. Now everything I thought I knew has changed.

It was a normal tour, like all the rest, except Spencer isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met. How am I supposed to resist those sapphire blue eyes and the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen? I mentioned he’s hot, right? And it’s not just him. He has three friends. Three men who look at me like I am the sun and the moon.

Just because Spencer saves me from a man whose speed is lightning fast and claims he and his pack mates have been looking for me doesn’t mean I should fall for them, does it? The temptation to give in to their suggestions is hard to resist. Maybe too hard.

Maybe I wasn’t meant to point out tombstones and landmarks. Maybe there is something to the prophecy Spencer’s pack talks about.

Maybe I don’t know sh*t about monsters after all.
But now I believe in them.

This was a big ol’ fail for me. My biggest (in terms of most personal) gripe is that I work hard to avoid rape in the books I read for entertainment. The reader here is told in just about the first chapter that a decade earlier Rosalie’s foster father tried to rape her. He failed, she ran away, end of story. Except that it’s not the end of the story. Her whole personality seems built around this one attempted rape. And while it’s horrible and (one assumes) traumatic, even at 92% the reader is STILL being reminded of Roger and his attempted rape 10 years earlier. (Plus, she runs into a vampire who tries to assault her too.) I really REALLY hate when rape is used as some sort of ubiquitous seasoning to a story. It contributed nothing and irritated me every single time it was mentioned again…and again…and again…and again.

Outside of that, the book is just inconsistent. One minute Rosalie is afraid, the next she’s giggling coquettishly, the next she’s up in the face of werewolves twice her size, threatening them (despite having no authority or reasonable reason to think her threats would hold sway). The plotting is ham-fisted, the romance is herky-jerky, her powers are all deus ex machina in times of need, the sex is just embarrassing to read, and the reverse harem aspect felt cartoonish. I won’t be continuing the series.