The Soul Stealer by Graham Masterton

I’ve been a fan of Masterton for a long time. I’ve also stepped away from his books for a long time…some of it was pure availability, some of it was his newly found penchant for series, but at any case, I read one of his recent supernatural detective stories (yes, from one of those series) and it was lots of fun. Made me think, why not read more Masterton. This was the only other book of his available on Netgalley at the time, plus, a standalone, so yeah…
No. Categorically not. Should have listened to the other negative reviews of it for this is definitely one of Masterton’s lesser works. Authors have those, especially ones with such a gigantic oeuvre…the one offs, the ones done for a paycheck, sure, but it’s always disappointing coming across them. It’s one of those…knowing what they can do and seeing how short of that standard the book lands.
So, what’s wrong with Soul Stealer specifically? Oh, so much. It might have had any intention of being a decent read, possibly even a commentary on the seedy exploitative side of movie business, but instead it ended up being as seedy and exploitative of a read as a Weinstein’s casting couch. Too soon? 
For the backstory, and Masterton to his credit always done a fun one, he returns to his beloved Native American mythology. Ever since Masterton’s Manitou days, the man has been combing through the folklore and finding this or that terrifying deity’s myths to fictionally spin. In this book, it’s a deity that empowers the show biz movers and shakers…for a cost. 
Enter abduction, rape, and more rape, followed by sacrifice for good measure. Whatever statement this book had to make, it went way, way over the top with it, to the extent that it ends up gratuitous, prurient, and overall, dramatically cheap.
The plot features amusingly named protagonists – a young woman and an older former detective – who team up to defeat the evildoer wizards behind the curtains of the silver screens. The plot is preposterous, silly and way too skinemaxy for its own good. 
The writing is crap too, which is surprising. Not the crappiest of craps - Masterton after all these years, can probably spin a readable yarn in his sleep – but it’s very much bottom of the barrel. Also, not at all Americanized the way it ought to be for a story set in Los Angeles. Usually, Masterton is aces at that, but this story is loaded with Americans spouting Queen’s English and all sorts of Britishisms throughout, which is just distracting. Masterton has written tons of US-set books and usually does a terrific job on realistic place depiction, so this just serves to highlight how much lesser-than this book is.
Overall, with its leaf-thin plot and its thickly laid on sex and violence, often sexual violence, this depraved ditty will leave your soul intact, but is going to steal some of your time with nothing to offer for it. Pass. Thanks Netgalley.