Strange Magic

by Michelle Mankin

[Linda]

This review was originally posted on (un)Conventional Bookviews
Strange Magic started out not very magical at all, however, as the story unfolded, magic became strong and ever-present.



Mankin really has a way with words, reading her stories always brings me to a magical realm, and that was even more true with Strange Magic. There is mythology, ghosts, greek gods, mystery, music, and a very strong love. Billy was a lost soul, but in the beginning, I thought he was 'just another rock-star' - and know that I love stories with musicians! - but there was much more to him than met the eyes. Thyme was a young girl who felt slightly out of place, but still confident in what she was doing and the people she loved and who loved her back.

Strange Magic is a little strange too, but in a very good way. Billy understands many things when he goes to New Orleans to have a little down-time between his tour and appointments. When he senses a ghost in the apartment he has rented, he's very wary at first, but soon, he realizes that this specific ghost might be what he needs to feel and act alive once more.

There is quite a bit of mystery in this story, and I will have to remain fairly vague to not spoil anything. What I can share is that there are a lot of characters that will be familiar if you're interested in Greek mythology, ghosts and magic. Mankin also managed to bring the love of the written word into this one, and I loved that one of the main characters read poetry, while the other wrote lyrics for songs. It was a link between them that I found both sweet and endearing.

Written in dual points of views, from both Thyme and Billy's perspectives, I got to know both of them very well. Their story was both tragic and beautiful, and it was impossible not to feel their feelings as their story unfolded. The first person, past tense worked very well for this tale that mesmerized me from start to finish.



The entire scene too familiar to be shocking to him anymore, my manager continued to voice his displeasure peppering the air with Cajun curses strong enough to make my eyes water.

Arla responded calmly, his wrinkle free western shirt and pressed Wrangler jeans outward reflections of his inner chillaxed attitude.

I put stubborn hands on my aproned hips, Mine were more in proportion to my petite frame. Mamere's were much wider, a testament to her love of food in general. She'd been sampling the ice cream we made at Chantelle Glace in the historic Vieux Carré section of New Orleans for a number of years before I came along.