The weirdest thing about this book, by far, is that it simultaneously manages to have no plot and too many plots all at the same time. There are at least five plot hooks thrown into this novel and none of them really get fully pursued. There's too much planning, and angsting, and screwing, and agonizing, and ruminating on long winding metaphysical descriptions and threats, and even dancing, to ever get around to totally engaging with any one thing. If this book is about anything it's about the whole plot with the weretigers that has been brewing for...four books? Five? I'm not sure. At any rate this book comes to a screeching halt after Anita collects her entire rainbow (not joking) of weretigers, leaving plot lines like assassins and evil vampires dangling for another time.
More and more these books blend into one another so that they cannot stand on their own - each book a record of a day in the life, if every day is rife with conflict and melodrama. It feels like fanfic, except the original author is penning it. It's almost like a new weird art form born of loose editing and fever dreams. Regardless, the series marches on, and I will continue my dabbling out of morbid curiosity. (Again, I'm reading these so you don't have to. You're welcome.) I give this book a solid shrug.