I’m almost as obsessed with Dracula as Mina is in this novel. On the day it was released at my local independent bookstore, I bought it and read it in the store, while my housemate made full use of their free wifi and observed that I read with an “appalled” expression.
I didn’t know I read lesbian vampire sexploitation with an appalled look. I assumed it was more “amused.” That’s what this novel is, by the way. It exhumes Elizabeth Bathory, another torturer from history who ends up making dear old Vlad the Impaler look like a wannabe. This is a sequel in the sense that Huck Finn is a sequel: the story picks up again, but brings forward a different character, relegating the star of the first book to a supporting role.
Unlike Huck Finn, however, this sequel doesn’t elevate the story to even greater literature. Everything here is degenerated. The characters certainly are. If you thought the heroes in Dracula were a little too sickeningly heroic, you won’t have that problem this time. They’re all pretty trashy now.
In the original novel, gore is artfully portrayed, and sex is deliciously implied. In this sequel, we're hit over the head with both in 21st-Century obviousness. (No, on second thought, it’s tired, 20th-Century obviousness. And that’s late 20th Century--nobody’s speech in the book reflects the Edwardian Era.) This book is apparently the novelization of a movie in the works. Absolutely nothing in it is original. Even Bathory has been wakened before to be set on unmotivated rampages. This isn’t the sequel to a great classic; it’s the latest product from the vampire industry that has remained undead ever since.