"At Midnight’s local pawnshop, weapons are flying off the shelves—only to be used in sudden and dramatic suicides right at the main crossroads in town.So I’ve been dragging my ass reading Night Shift by Charlaine Harris. As the third and final book in her Midnight trilogy, I'm kind of not surprised at my paling mood. While I finished the first book in the series not long after its May 2014 release; a year later, it took me six months to finish the second book. Why? Because it was just unexciting. And now that same bored, languid feeling has arrived in Night Shift. No matter how many second winds I suck, I just don't think this book is going to happen.
Who better to figure out why blood is being spilled than the vampire Lemuel, who, while translating mysterious texts, discovers what makes Midnight the town it is. There’s a reason why witches and werewolves, killers and psychics, have been drawn to this place.
And now they must come together to stop the bloodshed in the heart of Midnight. For if all hell breaks loose—which just might happen—it will put the secretive town on the map, where no one wants it to be..."
The days kept ticking. And ticking. And ticking. And four days since cracking the book open, I've yet to jump over 93 pages. The sad part is I like the characters populating the book/town. I like their individual quirks and supernatural presences (there's psychic, witch, were-tiger, vampire, etc.). I like how each attempts to serve the mysteries surrounding their small town. Yet, by God, there just isn’t enough fire and movement in the story to keep me wholly invested. On second thought, it's as if I'm in love with the idea of the characters, but that's almost the extent of it.