*Rounded Up From A 3.75*
Moonsick is one of those YA horror concepts that’s immediately legible: what if becoming a werewolf was a contagious disease, and society responded the way it often does to outbreaks, only dialed up into something more authoritarian and militarized?
This book is very intentionally Covid-inspired, not just in vibe but in the social architecture. The outbreak timeline mirrors what a lot of us lived through, except here the response includes a task-force-with-teeth energy (the VDTF/“judge, jury, executioner” arm of the state) that exists to track and eliminate infected people during the lunar cycle. And that framing is where the novel is at its strongest: it’s a story about infection, fear, surveillance, and who gets protected versus who gets targeted.
Our main character, Heidi, starts in the safest possible position. She’s wealthy, insulated, and from a zip code with basically a 0% infection rate. She has the kind of protection that makes a crisis feel like something happening “over there.” And then the book flips her world: Heidi gets infected after a break-in during the full moon, and suddenly she isn’t someone protected by the system. She’s someone the system is designed to remove.
That shift is the engine of the novel, and I thought it was a smart one. Heidi’s infection doesn’t just create physical danger; it forces her into the part of society she’s never had to see clearly. She ends up on the run with Cameron, who’s infected at the same time and comes from a completely different socioeconomic and cultural reality. Their relationship has a light YA romance thread, and while I didn’t think it was essential to the core of the book, it did feel believable. The book seeds the idea that Cameron noticed Heidi long before she ever had to notice him, and when you combine that with the intensity of survival, the connection doesn’t feel random.
One detail I loved is that the “infection rules” aren’t just the standard werewolf bite. Saliva can infect you, and the book uses that in a way that becomes more narratively relevant later on. That small craft choice made the werewolf element feel more “disease-like,” more transmissible, more frightening in a day-to-day way.
The midsection also leans into commentary about cures, access, and medical profiteering. Heidi and Cameron chase hope in the form of a supposed “cure,” only to be led into a weight-loss-drug-adjacent pipeline that feels like a critique of misinformation, desperation, and how quickly “miracle solutions” spread when people are scared and the official systems aren’t serving them. The book also nods at that wider feeling many people have had: if we can do this with technology, why do some diseases linger for decades without breakthroughs? The novel doesn’t claim a medical thesis, but it does capture the emotional reality of distrust and exhaustion.
Where the story gets the most interesting, though, is Rea.
Rea is a great foil to Heidi because she isn’t just “evil.” She represents a completely different response to oppression and illness: instead of seeking normalcy and safety, she pushes toward embracing the wolf and mastering it, even turning it into power. Rea’s motivations are rooted in anger at systems that harm her, while Heidi’s are rooted in returning to the life she’s been told is the only acceptable one. That tension is the heart of the book for me: not just “survive the infection,” but what does survival even mean when the system only values you if you’re clean, obedient, and useful?
On the other side, we have the task force characters, including Frank (and Reaper), who serve as the “boots-on-the-ground” view of what it means to hunt infected people. I understood why they’re there: to show the culture of enforcement, the macho normalization of violence, the “rookie’s first kills” emotional processing. But this is also where my main critique starts to form. Frank, especially, felt like a functional perspective rather than a necessary character. He didn’t add enough narrative weight to justify how much attention he occasionally gets.
That’s kind of the throughline of my 3.75 rating: this is a really consumable, fun read with strong ideas, but it occasionally skips the deeper nuance that would have made it hit harder. There were moments where I questioned character motivations or the intelligence of certain decisions, and I could feel the constraints of “short YA horror debut” in places where I wanted more breathing room. Honestly, another 50 pages of development would’ve elevated the emotional stakes and made the thematic commentary even sharper.
The ending, though? I liked it a lot. The story resolves with an escape to Canada, which works both practically (more space, more hiding) and thematically: the world can’t pretend this is a “poor people problem” anymore. The book closes with wealthy people getting infected too, and that final note lands because it forces the social commentary into the open. Systems built to punish “them” always panic when it starts happening to “us.”
Overall: Moonsick is a strong, accessible debut with an easy binge factor and a solid audiobook experience. It’s not “perfect” for me, but it’s definitely worth picking up if you like horror that uses monsters to talk about real-world fear, control, and inequality.
Recommended for: YA horror readers who want fast pacing, outbreak themes, social commentary, and a werewolf twist that feels modern.
Not for: readers who want deep character nuance or maximum plot realism in every motivation.