The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan, Text, $32.95.
You think I’m joking? A book on werewolves? Oh, but such an elegant, tongue-in-hairy-cheek take on the genre it makes you wonder why anyone wastes their time on those dreary and insipid vamps, eternal enemies of the lycanthrope tribe.
Our hero (so to speak) is Jake Marlowe, who has survived 200 years of moon madness and vampire persecution to become the last werewolf standing — or rather posing, sucking on Camel filters when his teeth allow.
A style-hound with a Wildean turn of phrase, Jake is now lonely and weary of his own hunger for sex and blood.
He’s ready to pack it in — just one last human supper before surrendering to his enemies — when he sniffs the dangerous possibility of love.
Duncan plays with all the horror traditions, but raises them to such a lurid and literary pitch you’ll either laugh out loud or get sucked into the suspense of the story. Or, more likely, both.
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