This is not a good book. Apologies for taking the lowest-hanging fruit here, but that's really what it boils down to. It's not a particularly terrible book either, I should note; it's just...unremarkable in nearly every way. And in a sense, that's worse.
It's not often that I find myself so disinterested in a book, that I can't bring myself to finish it, but that was certainly the case here. After 112 pages, I felt like I was just reading Of Mice and Men with blood magic. Which sadly, isn't as cool as it sounds. First and foremost, you've got the pair of protagonists: the little, clever one, and the big, hulking dumb one, both transients, trying to get by with their limited skills, and usually ending up in more trouble than they'd bargained for. Except, Lem and Mags aren't as interesting as George and Lenny.
Lem is a two-bit "Trickster," a low-level blood mage by his own choice, since he refuses to use anybody's blood but his own to perform magic. And in case you forget that, the book takes every available opportunity to remind you, and explore exactly why, in great detail, at least three separate times in the 112 pages I read. And you know that part in most Dresden Files books, where Harry Dresden is fully tapped out, and can barely walk, let alone cast spells? That's Lem throughout most of this book, more or less to the letter.
And Mags is...well, he pretty much just is. A walking archetype of the big brute with a soft heart, he comes across as a less endearing (and more foul-mouthed) version of Lenny from the aforementioned Steinbeck novel.
But what really killed me were the inconsistencies. Lem is 33, except for, 50 pages later, when he's suddenly 29, with no jump in time. Then there's the girl who magic doesn't work on. Except when it does. Etc. and so on. This lack of continuity, coupled with the overall unmemorable nature of the story made this book a sore disappointment. There was some genuinely good imagery at work here and there, as well as some nice turns of phrase, but that alone can't save a very by-the-numbers story, whose underlying plot I've seen before (and done better) plenty of times.
I went into We Are Not Good People wanting to like it. I loved what Somers did with the Avery Cates books, but something just didn't work, here. There's a chance this novel might get truly astounding further on, but after reading a fifth of it and not becoming invested, I can't bring myself to find out for sure. Your mileage may vary.