On the Edge, by Ilona Andrews (REVIEW) -- Leaping off the Edge... and into the Weird
Although I can't technically say this with any degree of authority, I suspect that most people picture one of two things when thinking about the rural Deep South here in America. Many of them likely conjure up some Tara-esque ideal--an immense plantation house surrounded by lush trees and flowers, with genteel, white-frocked ladies wearing beribboned sunhats, and dapper, pale-suited men in straw boaters, lounging on verandas and idly sipping juleps. (Whether or not that's ever been a remotely accurate portrayal of any part of the South, I have no idea, but nowadays such an idyllic tableau is probably only to be found by going on one of those scenic antebellum tours.) The other popular depiction is that of a dirt-poor family, living in a ramshackle house that's seen better decades... a hound dog or two lounging on the yard out front, a rusting old pickup on blocks under a shade tree, and some discarded appliances cast haphazardly in the overgrown backyard... with the fe...