5 stars
Robyn Peterman has once again delivered a paranormal fever dream, and this time we get it straight from the secret diary of a Prada‑loving Vampyre‑Demon who has absolutely had it. A Fashionably Dead Diary is pure, unfiltered chaos — the kind that only happens when Satan blackmails you into ghostwriting his autobiography slash romance novel. Honestly, I’d rather fight a horde of feral were‑chihuahuas, but our heroine? She’s stuck with Uncle Lucifer and his ego the size of Hell.
The diary format is perfection. Every entry is a meltdown wrapped in couture, sprinkled with murderous fantasies, and delivered with the kind of unhinged honesty only a demon with nothing left to lose can muster. She’s ranting, she’s spiralling, she’s threatening to rip the mouth off her diary if it dares talk back — and I was cackling the entire time.
Lucifer, meanwhile, is at his absolute worst (so, his best). He’s dramatic, demanding, and fully committed to being the biggest butthole in the underworld. The fact that she calls him “Uncle F%#ker” with the same energy most people reserve for “Steve from accounting” is iconic. Their dynamic is pure dysfunctional family gold.
The humour is feral. The insults are art. The chaos is biblical. And the entire thing reads like someone handed a demon a glitter pen and said, “Sweetie, journal your feelings.” She does — violently.
This novella doesn’t try to be deep. It doesn’t try to be serious. It exists solely to let one woman vent about her psychotic family, her terrible life choices, and the fact that she cannot cheat to save her undead soul. And honestly? It’s glorious.
If you’re already invested in the Hot Damned universe, this is another deliriously fun detour into the madness. If you’re new, you will be confused, alarmed, and spiritually unprepared — but you’ll laugh anyway.
Sit back. Relax. And enjoy the diary of a demon who deserves hazard pay.
Hellish ride, indeed.