Derek Landy writes engagingly. So engagingly that you often only realise mid-guffaw that you’re laughing at the deadpan sarcasm of a serial killer, or feeling some sympathy for a baby-eating demon. He sucks you in for the ride – whether that is a comfortable ride is another matter.
This penchant for finding and channelling the hysterical humour in death – and the tiny-but-possibly-still-beating-heart in the midst of a lump of 99% evil flesh, bone and horns – is what draws me to his books.
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