Masters of Death
Horror reviewers, particularly in the oppressive hot summer months, may feel the need to read lighter fare that is still somewhat within the boundaries of the genre. When offered a copy of the novel Masters of Death, I jumped on it. The description of a vampire real estate agent plagued by a poltergeist who is haunting one of her listings was enticing. Then add to the mix a faux medium who, parenthetically, happens to be the godson of Death being recruited by said vampire to cleanse the property. It came across like a spritzy paranormal cocktail seemingly perfect for summer sipping. Refreshing like a cool breeze that offsets the pervasive heat. The narrative’s ambience is rather like a whimsical morphing of iconic cinema touchstones: Swedish auteur Ingmar Bergman’s masterpiece The Seventh Seal, in which the lead character plays a life-altering game of chess with Death, and the classic screwball comedies of the 1930s. While not reaching those absurdly lofty heights, author Olivie Blake’s writing is chock full of wackiness and wit.
For example, Death himself is snarky and prone to cussing. Each time he employs an expletive in his speech, Death is required to snap a rubber band he wears on his wrist. This ouch-inducing punishment is enforced by his godson. Their relationship taxes Death’s patience: “Death, being a creature of near omniscience and mostly unquestioned venerability, surmised that he was being mocked, which was itself the branch of a more perennial suspicion that he’d erred somewhat critically during the formative years of his recalcitrant ward.”
Fox D’Mora, Death’s ward, is indeed a handful. Centuries old, but still mortal, he retains his youthful good looks and vigor. His easily seduces his female séance clients although his true love is of another gender. He does greatly appreciate women who appeal to his senses: “She wore a beguiling perfume, something botanical but not too nauseating. A bit like a walk in the woods, branches snapping underfoot. The call of a bird on the wind somewhere, like the thrill of a promise kept.” Sensory and sensual imagery poetically expressed.
The book does get somewhat bogged down in its middle section, due in part to a plethora of peripheral characters from an array of mythologies and organized faiths. Keeping them straight becomes an effort and usurping of identities also muddies the waters. Their persistent in-fighting, despite the witticisms and snappy repartees, wears thin at times. But when the plot focuses on the central figures, the author displays a steady hand.
As a respite from the dark and horrific, Masters of Death served its purpose. Initially released in 2018, the 2023 Tor edition I received is described as newly revised and edited and featuring new content. It is a very handsome volume, with endpapers illustrated by Polarts, and new interior artwork provided by Little Chmura. Olivie Blake’s writing made me laugh with delight while also allowing me to indulge in sentiment courtesy of this succinct sentence: “To live, to love; it was always a choice, and inherently a brave one, to face down certain doom with open arms.” A lovely lull from, yet an echo of, my love of horror.
