Caitlin Starling’s The Starving Saints is the kind of book that sounds like it was cooked up in a cauldron of medieval grimdark, sapphic yearning, and a heavy dose of “what the fuck just happened?” It’s a novel that swings for the fences with a premise so juicy it could make a vegan salivate: a besieged castle, starving to death, gets a visit from godlike “saints” who bring feasts and salvation, only to plunge the place into cannibalistic madness and hedonistic chaos. But as much as I wanted to sink my teeth into this grotesque banquet, I came away feeling like I’d bitten into a beautifully plated dish that was half-baked and a little too chewy. Starling’s got the chops, no question. She’s a horror darling with a knack for the unsettling, but this book feels like it’s trying to juggle too many severed limbs and ends up dropping a few.

Starling’s no stranger to crafting nightmares that cling like damp rot. Her debut, The Luminous Dead (2019), was a sci-fi horror gut-punch about a caver trapped in a cave with a manipulative overseer, all wrapped in a suffocating sense of isolation. The Death of Jane Lawrence (2021) leaned into Gothic horror with a marriage gone wrong and a house that felt like it was breathing down your neck. Both books showcased her ability to blend psychological terror with visceral settings, often starring flawed, fierce women who wrestle with their own demons as much as external ones. Starling’s work thrives on tension and ambiguity, and she’s built a cult following for her willingness to get weird and stay there. The Starving Saints, her latest, cranks the weirdness to eleven, but it also feels like she’s trying to outdo her own strangeness, sometimes to a fault.

Set in the fictional Aymar Castle, The Starving Saints traps us in a medieval-ish stronghold under siege by an enemy kingdom, Etribia. Food’s running out, and the inhabitants are staring down the barrel of starvation. Enter our three POV characters: Phosyne, a former nun turned sorceress who’s tasked with conjuring miracles but lives in a pigsty of her own making; Ser Voyne, a loyal lady knight itching to do something heroic but stuck babysitting Phosyne; and Treila, a servant girl with a vendetta against Voyne for her father’s death. As the castle’s desperation peaks, four “saints” and their leader, the Constant Lady, appear out of nowhere, offering endless feasts and divine salvation. But the food’s got a catch. It’s mind-controlling, and soon the castle’s spiraling into a bacchanalian nightmare of cannibalism, worship, and otherworldly horrors. Our three heroines, each wrestling with their own baggage, must figure out what the saints want and how to stop them before Aymar eats itself alive.

The Starving Saints is a smorgasbord of themes, and Starling doesn’t shy away from the big ones. Hunger is the beating heart of the story, not just for food but for power, love, and meaning. The castle’s starvation mirrors the characters’ inner voids: Phosyne’s craving for arcane knowledge, Voyne’s need for purpose, Treila’s thirst for revenge. The saints exploit this, turning devotion into a literal feast that consumes the worshippers. It’s a biting critique of blind faith, especially when desperation makes you cling to any savior, no matter how toothy. The book also plays with cleanliness as a metaphor for godliness: Phosyne’s filthy lair screams her rejection of the nuns’ sterile piety, while the saints’ pristine feasts hide their rot. There’s a nod to John 6:53-58 (“unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man…”) that gets twisted into a grotesque literalism, flipping worship into predation.

The sapphic dynamics between the three women add another layer, exploring toxic codependency and yearning. Their relationships are a messy tangle of lust, hate, and need, reflecting the power struggles that ripple through the castle. Bees and honey pop up as symbols of both sweetness and danger, tying into the saints’ seductive but deadly offerings. But some of the symbolism like a creature in a crevice that bites fingers or invisible beasts that feel like they wandered in from a different book, comes off as random, like Starling threw in extra fantastical elements for the sake of it. The themes are ambitious, but they don’t always cohere, leaving you with a sense of “cool, but… why?”

Starling’s prose is a double-edged sword. It’s lush and evocative, painting Aymar as a claustrophobic hellscape where every stone drips with dread. Her descriptions of feasts with meat glistening, honey dripping, and flesh tearing are so vivid you can almost taste the horror. The shifting POVs give each character a distinct voice: Phosyne’s frantic, Voyne’s restless, Treila’s cunning. But the writing can also be a slog. Starling leans hard into a fever-dream style, with short, choppy sentences and metaphorical flourishes that sometimes obscure what’s happening. It’s intentional, meant to mirror the characters’ unraveling minds, but it can feel like wading through molasses. The book’s 320 pages feel closer to 500, with repetitive scenes of characters hiding, scheming, or stumbling through hallucinatory chaos. The pacing drags, especially in the middle, and the climax is prolonged, leaving some plot threads dangling like severed tendons.

Originality is where The Starving Saints shines. Starling’s premise is a knockout. Medieval horror with cannibalistic saints and sapphic antiheroes is about as fresh as it gets. The blend of psychological, body, and religious horror feels like a love letter to fans of Lapvona or The Green Knight. But the originality takes a hit when extraneous elements dilute the focus. It’s like Starling couldn’t resist tossing in every weird idea she had.

The writing is a strength and a weakness. When it’s good, it’s chef’s kiss—gory, poetic, and immersive. But the overreliance on dreamlike ambiguity and repetitive imagery bogs things down. I wanted more clarity to anchor the madness, especially when the plot started feeling like a carousel of “oh no, another feast gone wrong.”

The horror is visceral and unsettling, especially the cannibalism scenes, which are gross without being gratuitous. The saints are creepy as hell, their serene benevolence masking a predatory hunger. But the impact wanes when the weirdness gets silly. Those invisible beasts felt like they belonged in a B-movie, not this grim tapestry. The slow-burn tension also fizzles in the bloated middle, making the scares feel sporadic.

Starling’s tackling big ideas (faith, power, desire) and she mostly pulls it off. The critique of blind devotion and the exploration of sapphic dynamics are compelling. But the themes get muddled by the overstuffed plot and vague supernatural elements. I wanted more focus on the saints’ origins or the women’s backstories to ground the symbolism.

Here’s my biggest gripe. Phosyne, Voyne, and Treila are fascinating on paper being flawed, messy, and human. But I struggled to connect with them. Their motivations shift erratically, and their backstories feel like sketches rather than fully realized histories. I wanted to care about their triumphs and failures, but they often felt like pawns in the plot’s chaos rather than drivers of it.

The Starving Saints is a book I respect more than I enjoyed. Its originality and prose are top-tier, delivering a premise and atmosphere that horror fans will drool over. The horror hits hard when it lands, and the themes are bold, even if they don’t fully gel. But the bloated pacing, inconsistent weirdness, and distant characters kept me at arm’s length. It’s not a bad book—far from it—but it’s a frustrating one, like a gorgeous painting with a few smudged corners. If you’re a diehard fan of weird horror or Starling’s brand of dark fantasy, you’ll likely eat this up. For me, it was a feast that left me hungry for something tighter and more cohesive.

TL;DR: The Starving Saints is a grotesque, ambitious medieval horror show that’s as dazzling as it is maddening. Starling’s premise and prose are killer, but the bloated plot and disconnected characters make it a tough swallow. Worth a read if you love weird, sapphic, cannibalistic chaos, but don’t expect it to hold your hand.

Recommended for: Readers who own a velvet cloak, enjoy theological discourse during sex scenes, and consider religious ecstasy via cannibalism a beach read.
Not Recommended for: Anyone who needs their horror to make sense or their characters to feel like actual people, not fever-dream puppets.

Harper Voyager
Published May 20, 2025