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The
title is appropriate: three interlinked stone rings that hold the key
to the wearer’s life, death, and soul. In this paranormal romance,
exchanging magic knots with someone binds the two hearts and souls
permanently. Pretty convenient when you’re in a fight for your life and
the rebirth and freedom of a tribe of piskies. (Not pixies. Big
difference. Not just in height.)
Three magic rings. Three gripes
about romances in general.
Gratuitous vampires.
Gratuitous homosexuality.
Gratuitous sex.
What’s the allure of vampires? I
saw Nosferatu in film history class, and, honey, I
just don’t see the attraction. You want to spend eternity with that? I
wouldn’t let that ugly thing get within a hundred yards of me without
reaching for bug repellant and every gardening tool I could find. Women
want that leaning over them, trying to tap a vein? Do you have any idea
what old blood on the breath smells like? Well, I don’t and I don’t
want to. Ever. Joss Whedon got it partly right with the vampires in Buffy
the Vampire Slayer—when they show their true faces, they’re
dang ugly and nasty. They need killing.
Why, I ask you, are vampires so
big in romance novels? Honey, they don’t all look like Frank Langella
in his glory days (he’s not bad-looking now, either). In The
Magic Knot, the vampire is a Nightstalker. He started out a
pisky (not a pixie, remember), but at some point he changed and was
cast out by his tribe, which actually started the problem.
Don’t these magic folk ever
learn? When you cast someone out or you try to stop a prophecy from
coming true, you’re just asking for trouble!
Of course, he bonds with
whomever he drinks blood from. You gotta feel sorry for Nightshade,
stuck with a desiccated, insane old Druid. And, double of course, he’s
gorgeous. The poor guy just wants to find someone new to feed on and
break free of the Druid—and the top contenders are Niall, the hero, or
his libidinous brother, Michael, until Rose comes along.
Which leads to the
token/gratuitous homosexuality. Am I going to ruin it for anyone if I
reveal that Nightshade ends up biting Michael? But before that happens,
he suggests that Niall should hand himself over to buy freedom for
Rose, the heroine, the daughter of the last pisky princess. Nightshade
dwells on the beauty and aroma of Niall. Ick. Gross. Do not
go there.
Homosexuality is the cause of
the hour, right up there with global warming. Prove you’re enlightened
by putting a token homosexual in your story as either the best pal to
the heroine or the hero’s misunderstood, lovable brother. It doesn’t
matter if the story actually needs that element or
not. Off the top of my head, I can think of several elements that could
replace the whole
vampire/gay elements without changing the story.
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It’s
not like Nightshade actually is gay, because he’d much rather bond with
Rose. And he’s not above taking advantage of her total ignorance of her
heritage or danger. He would talk her into handing over her magic knot
without revealing just what that implies. Fortunately, she managed to
stumble on to Niall’s magic knot (the dummy doesn’t wear it or keep it
locked up where naïve little bank investigators can’t find it when
they’re looking for hidden records), and she picks it up and bonds with
him unknowing. But Nightshade still tries to mate with Rose. To save
her from the wrath of the Fairy Queen, of course, because Rose needs to
“run the light,” a pretty euphemism for sex to “awaken” her magical
heritage.
Yeah, right.
Which leads to the third gripe:
gratuitous sex. Why, when an alien/magical race shows up, is so much
time is devoted to exploring their sexual practices? [Can we say Pon
Farr?] Why, from the start of a romance novel, do the hero and heroine
constantly think about getting each other into bed? Michael basically
uses his magical talent to lure girls into bed. Niall can’t get his
mind off Rose’s body. Nightshade wants Rose’s blood. Rose is attracted
to Michael, Niall, and Nightshade—but she has the intelligence to
realize it’s just physical, and she uses her strength of will to resist
their magical powers. Good girl!
Unfortunately, that doesn’t last
long. Because this is a paranormal romance, the hero and heroine are
going to tangle up those sheets.
That’s my biggest gripe with the
entire romance genre—this belief that the hero and heroine have to have
sex, on stage, with light shows and sound effects. Answer this: If all
they have is sexual attraction, if they don’t spend time getting to
know each other’s souls before they get to know each other’s bodies,
what will they have when the hormones stop pumping, the temperature
goes down, the lights come up, and they have to wash those sweaty
sheets? (Okay, I admit the whole magical-knot/soul-bonding thing solves
that problem, but what about the rest of us?)
This novel won the American
Title IV contest, and I can see why. The characters are
three-dimensional, the conflict/goal of the story threatens to drive
the hero and heroine apart from the very beginning, it turns into a
do-or-die situation, and the author knows her mechanics. I enjoyed the
story, outside of a few “Huh?” speed bumps. I can see why it won an
award . . . but what does that say about the romance genre in general,
the storylines that attract reader interest and enthusiasm?
When I dropped my membership in
the Romance Writers of America, the two most active and growing
sub-genres were Erotica and Inspirational. Kind of ironic, huh?
Honestly, isn’t there more out
there than gratuitous “whatever” for a romance reader?
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