Queen Victoria: Demon Hunter
Let's imagine that nineteenth-century European history is not quite what you learned in class. Leopold of Belgium, for example, is a demon. The Duchess of Kent, Queen Victoria's mother, is also a demon. Sir John Conroy, the Duchess' Very Evil comptroller, wants to be a demon. (Some people have no taste.) Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha is a half-demon...and so, for that matter, is our own dear Queen, Victoria. Victoria's and Albert's marriage is based on passion, policy, and, unbeknownst to Our Heroes, a Terrifying Plot to put a demon heir on the imperial throne, enabling the demons to Control the Empire, Rule the World, and, you know, do those things that demons do so well. Did I mention that Victoria's and Albert's heir is supposed to be the Antichrist? (Don't worry: Lord Melbourne doesn't get around to letting the Queen know that little factoid, either.) On the righteous side of affairs is the Protektorate, primarily represented by the daring swordswoman Mrs. Brown (married to John Brown, off the job since a rather disconcerting encounter with a supernatural baddie). Truly, our apocalyptic cup runneth over.
Such is the alternative history driving A. E. Moorat's Queen Victoria: Demon Hunter. If demons aren't enough for the reader's discerning palate, there are also werewolves, a succubus, murderous chimney sweepers, evil sewer rats, and zombies. Lots of zombies. Are there ever zombies. Zombie prostitutes, a zombie butler, a boatload (coffinload?) of zombie Tory politicians, and, eventually, a zombie Prime Minister. Said zombies are all the responsibility of the suspiciously-named Lord Quimby, a stereotypical Degenerate Aristocrat dedicated to "a life of dissolution, ungodliness and an unholy interest in revenance" (3). Quimby is, alas, a bit of a bumbler, which causes certain difficulties when your hobby involves undead people with an insatiable passion for devouring human flesh. He also seems to have a thing for getting himself blackmailed, which ultimately entangles him with Conroy. In any event, thanks to the zombies (with an assist from the werewolves), the novel's menu--so to speak--regularly features amputation, decapitation, mastication, disemboweling, and general devouring. The Good Guys, of course, have their own tricks, ranging from unusually intelligent horses to katanas to instruments of agonizing torture.
At base, the novel is a conspiracy thriller, subbing in demons et al. for the usual secret society of choice. There's some occasional political snarkery that never really rises to full-blown satire: the anti-Reform movement is in the hands of the demons ("How else are we to keep the masses under control if not through repression and poverty, disease and starvation?" Conroy asks [236]), and the Queen refuses to torture a werewolf in order to reveal the kidnapped Albert's whereabouts. To balance things out, I suppose, there's a passing jibe at liberal sensitivity. Moorat supplies some mildly amusing and/or farcical situations, like Queen Victoria, Action Hero, or Quimby's increasing fondness for his zombified butler, Perkins (a kind of Jeeves and Wooster partnership, at least if Jeeves were undead and in the habit of eating people). Actual jokes, such as they are, tend toward the obvious:
"[...] Hm, I've a mind to christen the process pornogenic drawing. What do you think?"
"In France they'll call it pornographie, sir," joked the younger man.
"It'll never catch on, Craven." (8)
All in all, light wit is not really the novel's strong suit, and some readers may put it down after the opening sentence--"Much later, as he watched his manservant, Perkins, eating the dog, Quimby gloomily reflected on the unusual events of the evening" (3)--which dwells dangerously near Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest territory (note: see ETA).
Despite its ostensible subject matter, though, Queen Victoria: Demon Hunter doesn't work very well as horror. There are plenty of situations that ought to be frightening, generally involving people having their innards removed and the like, but while the novel serves up generous heapings of explicit gore, it does nothing to play on the reader's feelings. This is not The Turn of the Screw or The Haunting of Hill House, both of which make the reader nervously wonder when something will happen, what that character is actually seeing, or if that totally innocuous object is about to cause mayhem. Instead, Queen Victoria offers affectless reporting. Even Lord Quimby can only respond with a mildly dismayed "'Oh dear'" (218) when faced with a gift of heads. Guts on their own are not scary; the fear usually comes from anticipating guts, or identifying with a character's response to guts, or just imagining undescribed guts.
Nevertheless, unlike Dracula the Un-Dead or Drood, Queen Victoria: Demon Hunter is not offensively bad. It has none of the giddy inventiveness characterizing something like Paul di Filippo's Steampunk Trilogy, breaks no new ground when it comes to world-building, and, as I said, isn't especially nerve-wracking. It is what it is--namely, an attempt to capitalize on the post-Pride and Prejudice and Zombies market craze for zombifying literature and history. As such, it's moderately amusing.
ETA: A reader has e-mailed me to note that the opening sentence resembles one by J. G. Ballard, so no doubt there's homage going on.