A Plagued Sea is an unnerving and fast-paced novella that marries the cosmic horror of Lovecraft’s works with the contemporary horrors and fears so many Asians live with: Xenophobia, natural disasters, environmental pollution, poverty, and a government indifferent to suffering. 

On one side of the mountains there are the bright lights of a city, but on the other side the effects of a large sea floor earthquake and its inevitable tsunami are progressing three years later and a craggy islet looms only a short distance away, possibly hiding a monster among its rocks. Almost the entirety of the village is infected with an incurable and untreated disease that made itself known shortly after the earthquake, initiating a change at every level of village life and a strict geographical quarantine put into effect. Only a few citizens are left that remain uninfected, and none of them like to think on how their time left on Earth is borrowed. 

It was an engaging story with an angry, cynical protagonist facing down an existence lived in a sort of limbo: She’s got her health, but is that a blessing when the world around her is sick? 4⭐️

Thanks to Netgalley and Tor Nightfire for early access to this title.

Meat Bees seems to not know what kind of story it is, and this lack of identity only highlights the novel’s other flaws.

Scarlett, the book’s protagonist, has been removed from her life in Chicago for the summer, trading skyscrapers for the small town in the Smokey Mountains where her dad lives. She’s understandably put out due to being pulled away from her friends, but Scarlett is a rather shallow character who only seems to think about her family and friends back home when it's convenient for the plot. There’s no heroism in Scarlett–she isn't fighting the titular meat bees because she wants to save the town or maybe even keep her father safe–Scarlett is just bored and looking for an adventure so she can avoid her dad and not think about her mom.

This book is filled with two dimensional characters that we never get to form opinions about or feelings for, and so with each unfortunate event there is no feeling of loss.

This leaves us with what seems like an excuse to write a YA insect horror with some vague supernatural jargon thrown in near the end to try and explain the why of it all. I was disappointed. 2⭐️

Thanks to Netgalley and CLASH Books for access to an early copy.

“And so we wonder at the architecture of snowflakes.”

Freyja is a bright spot in what's been a rather lackluster thriller landscape this year. It’s moody and atmospheric, with the island nation itself serving as the shifting topsoil where the story's roots grow from. 

It's a point of fact that the Icelandic national identity plays a huge role not only in terms of characterization but also as both an irritant and balm to the story itself. 

Freyja is split into two time periods: 1990 to 1991 and then 2018. Our protagonist, Unnur, is a half-American, doesn't speak Icelandic, and is raising her 75% Icelandic daughter mostly alone. The last point wouldn't be too bad if it weren't for the previous two, which are negative points against any mother in Iceland. Unnur spends most of her days anxious, if not downright frightened–spooked by memory lapses and things from the past she can’t explain.

This story has a great amount of twists and turns as the plot deepens and dives further into Unnur’s past and the memories that are fighting their way to the surface. A fantastic, well-written novel with lovely prose. 5⭐️

Thanks to NetGalley and the folks at Spiegel & Grau for the early copy.