The Red Winter by Cameron Sullivan arrives as a stunning debut that challenges every expectation of historical fantasy. This is not your grandfather’s monster-hunting tale, nor is it a simple romance disguised in period clothing. Instead, Sullivan has crafted something far more ambitious: a dark, witty, and devastatingly intimate exploration of immortality, queer love, and the moral compromises we make when hunting monsters—especially when the greatest monster might be looking back at us from the mirror.
The Blood-Soaked Canvas of 18th Century France
Set against the backdrop of pre-revolutionary France, The Red Winter by Cameron Sullivan weaves its narrative through two timelines: the original hunt for the Beast of Gévaudan in 1766 and its terrifying resurgence in 1785. Sullivan’s 18th-century France isn’t the romanticized version of costume dramas. This is a France teetering on the precipice of collapse, where aristocratic excess grinds against peasant desperation, where the Church’s iron grip begins to rust, and where something ancient and terrible has found fertile ground to feed.
The historical Beast of Gévaudan was a real mystery—a creature that terrorized the former province of Gévaudan between 1764 and 1767, claiming over a hundred victims. Sullivan takes this historical foundation and reimagines it through a supernatural lens that feels both completely fantastical and eerily plausible. The author demonstrates remarkable skill in balancing historical authenticity with genre elements, creating a world where footnoted academia meets visceral horror, where Latin incantations share space with bodice-ripping romance.
What elevates the historical setting beyond mere backdrop is Sullivan’s attention to the political undercurrents of the era. The mounting tensions between nobility and peasantry, the secret meetings of agitators, and the crushing weight of feudal oppression all serve not as window dressing but as essential elements of the narrative. The Beast doesn’t hunt in a vacuum—it hunts in a powder keg, and every death adds another spark.
Sebastian Grave: An Unforgettable Narrator
The novel’s greatest strength lies in its narrator, Professor Sebastian Grave. Writing as a memoir in 2013 about events that transpired centuries earlier, Sebastian is that rare creation: a protagonist who is simultaneously sympathetic and morally compromised, witty and wounded, powerful and desperately vulnerable. He’s bonded to a demon named Sarmodel who grants him immortality and arcane powers—at the price of feeding on human hearts.
Sebastian’s voice crackles with sardonic intelligence and weary resignation. He’s lived for centuries, witnessed empires rise and fall, and accumulated enough regrets to fill libraries. Yet he remains deeply, achingly human in his capacity for love, longing, and self-deception. The first-person narrative allows Sullivan to play with unreliable narration in fascinating ways—Sebastian tells us he’s a monster while simultaneously making us root for him, understand him, even love him despite the horrors he commits.
The relationship between Sebastian and his demon Sarmodel forms the novel’s dark heart. Their bond transcends simple possession—it’s partnership, marriage, and parasitism all at once. Sarmodel appears to Sebastian in various forms (most frequently as a painted baboon or a demon child) and their internal dialogue provides both comic relief and genuine emotional depth. This is a love story as much as any romance in the book, though it’s a love twisted by necessity and millennia of codependence.
Romance Amidst Ruin
At its core, The Red Winter by Cameron Sullivan is devastatingly romantic, though not in conventional ways. The relationship between Sebastian and Antoine Avenel d’Ocerne—the Baron of Gévaudan—unfolds across both timelines with all the intensity of a Greek tragedy. Their first meeting during the original hunt in 1766 ignites with chemistry and forbidden desire. Antoine is everything Sebastian shouldn’t want: reckless, privileged, painfully mortal. Yet their connection feels inevitable, written in the stars even as it’s doomed by circumstance and Sebastian’s immortal nature.
Sullivan writes queer romance with a frankness that feels refreshing for historical fiction. The physical intimacy between Sebastian and Antoine is rendered with sensuality and emotional honesty, never shying from desire while also exploring the vulnerability and power dynamics inherent in their relationship. When Sebastian returns to Gévaudan twenty years later, the weight of their history—and Antoine’s betrayal—adds layers of complexity to every interaction.
The novel doesn’t limit itself to this central romance. Jacques, Antoine’s cursed son, carries his own tragic love for Lorette, the herbalist’s daughter. These parallel stories of doomed affection reinforce the novel’s meditation on sacrifice and the prices we pay for connection.
The Beast and the Philosophy of Monsters
The Red Winter by Cameron Sullivan excels in its treatment of monstrosity. The Beast of Gévaudan isn’t simply a creature to be slain—it’s Avstamet, the ancient Spirit of War, a being as old as human conflict itself. Sullivan’s mythology draws from Greek and Roman traditions while creating something entirely original. Avstamet doesn’t merely kill; he represents humanity’s eternal hunger for conquest, the animal instinct to dominate and devour rivals.
This philosophical depth prevents the novel from becoming mere monster-hunting pulp. Every confrontation with the Beast raises questions about the nature of violence, the seduction of power, and whether civilization has truly tamed humanity’s savage core. The revelation that the Beast’s influence extends far beyond Gévaudan—potentially sparking the French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars—suggests that war itself is the true monster, one that wears many faces and can never be fully defeated.
Where the Novel Stumbles
Despite its many strengths, The Red Winter by Cameron Sullivan occasionally falters under the weight of its ambitions. The dual timeline structure, while effective for building suspense and exploring character growth, sometimes creates pacing issues. The 1766 sections feel more tightly plotted and urgent, while the 1785 present-day narrative occasionally meanders as Sebastian recounts his past to Jacques.
The extensive use of footnotes, while adding scholarly authenticity to Sebastian’s voice, can disrupt narrative flow. Some readers may find themselves jolted from tense action sequences by Sebastian’s academic asides about Latin etymology or demon taxonomy. What works as character quirk in moderation occasionally tips into self-indulgence.
Additionally, the novel’s dense mythology—involving Spirits, Arcane magic, Contracts, and various supernatural hierarchies—demands significant reader investment. Sullivan trusts his audience to keep pace without extensive exposition, which is admirable but can leave some readers scrambling to understand the rules governing this supernatural world. Key concepts like “anima,” “the Crippling Yoke,” and Sebastian’s various magical capabilities are introduced organically through context rather than explanation, which may frustrate those preferring clearer worldbuilding.
The supporting cast, while memorable, occasionally feels underserved. Cecile the herbalist/witch deserves more page time given her importance to the plot. Lorette exists primarily as an object of Jacques’s affection rather than a fully realized character. Even Antoine, crucial as he is to Sebastian’s emotional arc, remains somewhat inscrutable—his transformation from daring young lover to stern, pious father feels more told than shown.
Technical Mastery and Literary Ambition
Sullivan’s prose deserves special mention. The writing shifts registers with impressive control—from lyrical descriptions of forest spirits to visceral horror to sharp-witted banter. Sebastian’s voice maintains consistency across hundreds of pages while allowing for emotional range. The sex scenes burn with genuine eroticism; the horror sequences disturb without gratuitousness; the quiet moments of reflection carry real weight.
The novel’s structure as a memoir allows Sullivan to play with time in interesting ways. Sebastian writing in 2013 about events in the 1760s and 1780s creates layers of retrospection and foreshadowing. We know from the opening that Sebastian survives, that he’s still wrestling with these memories centuries later, which adds poignancy to his struggles and losses.
Essential Elements Worth Noting
Strengths:
- Complex, morally grey protagonist with unforgettable voice
- Rich historical setting that serves the story rather than overwhelming it
- Thoughtful, frank queer representation
- Genuinely frightening horror elements balanced with dark humor
- Romance that earns its emotional impact
- Original supernatural mythology rooted in classical tradition
Considerations:
- Dense prose and extensive footnoting won’t suit all readers
- Pacing occasionally uneven between timelines
- Requires patience with complex worldbuilding
- Some supporting characters deserved fuller development
- Graphic content (violence, sexuality) clearly present
For Readers Who Relish
This novel will particularly resonate with readers who appreciate Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s Mexican Gothic for its blend of romance and horror, or Alix E. Harrow’s The Ten Thousand Doors of January for its first-person intimacy and literary ambition. Fans of Leigh Bardugo’s Ninth House will recognize similar tones of academic magic and moral complexity. Those who enjoyed The Kingdoms by Natasha Pulley will appreciate the queer historical romance woven through fantastical elements.
For readers seeking similar dark historical fantasies with LGBTQ+ protagonists, consider The Watchmaker of Filigree Street by Natasha Pulley, A Marvellous Light by Freya Marske, or The Magpie Lord by KJ Charles. Fans of footnoted, academic-voiced narration might also enjoy Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell or Naomi Novik’s Temeraire series.
Final Verdict
The Red Winter by Cameron Sullivan announces a formidable new voice in dark fantasy. Despite occasional stumbles with pacing and supporting character development, this debut delivers a reading experience that lingers long after the final page. Sullivan has created something genuinely distinctive—a novel that refuses to be easily categorized, that demands engagement while rewarding it richly.
This is fantasy for readers who want their genre fiction to grapple with complex ideas about morality, power, and human nature. It’s romance for those who understand that love doesn’t conquer all—sometimes it just makes the inevitable more painful. It’s horror that understands the real monsters are often the compromises we make to survive another century, another day, another heartbeat.
Sebastian Grave’s journey through blood-soaked French history reveals uncomfortable truths about the costs of immortality and the hunger that drives both beasts and men. In bringing this story to life with passion, intelligence, and no small amount of gore, Cameron Sullivan has earned his place among contemporary fantasy’s most promising new talents.