It shouldn't surprise that a werewolf novel might remind one of various mashed-together modes or genres. It's Jason Bourne meets LeStat! It's Humbert Humbert (who gets an explicit howl of appreciation) via Hannibal Lecter! James Bond & Dexter! Eddie Munster via Penthouse!
I relished Duncan's delight in language for about a hundred pages, then it seemed to fade, or maybe just my appreciation dimmed, as the novel grew more plotty. There was a lot of sexy sexy, and an abiding commitment to the carnal--to meat, body, scent, fluid, genitals, appetite--mixed in with an occasional action scene that occasionally roared (but as often seemed merely pleasant--but, still, enjoyable
...)... and that, too, was intriguing and then repetitive (if impressively committed to that thematic center).
This review is kind of mashed up, too, isn't it? He's sort of celebrating and sort of sniping! Thoughtful yet thin and not very helpful! Too clever by half & yet self-deprecating!
It's a fun book until the Alan Ball adaptation comes along.
Yvonne might really have enjoyed it, if she'd stuck around 'til I finished the review.