6:15 Wake up and stumble downstairs to start coffee. Heads will roll if I am out of this life-saving, life-affirming elixir.

6:30 Get Spawn dressed and fed.

7:20 Drive Spawn to school. He’s wearing jeans and t-shirt. I’m in PJs and slippers. Yes, I’m that mom.

7:40 Return home, chug another cup or three of coffee. Boot up ye olde Internet. Check email, Twitter, Facebook, Google Reader, IM. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

10:00 Finally shame self into closing down Internet.

10:30 Really shame self into closing down Internet. Sometimes crowbar is necessary.

10:40 Okay, really, SHUT DOWN THE INTERNET.

11:00 The cursor taunts me. Winking, winking, winking. Write a few words. Delete them. Write a few more words. Reach for coffee mug. It’s empty. Get up for a refill.

11:30 Didn’t we already talk about this Internet thing? Seriously.

11:45 Have one page done. Convince self its drivel. Reread, nitpick, move some sentences around.

12:30 Stomach starts growling. Stumble downstairs for chocolate and more coffee. Crap, the pot’s empty. Switch to Diet Coke. My kidneys surrender.

1:00 Actually writing now. Hmm, this is pretty good. Characters are behav– Crap, where did you come from? I didn’t plan on having a weremonkey in this story. But you’re kind of awesome. Make notes to go back and work weremonkey plot into earlier pages.

1:15 Begin Googling weremonkeys. Because, you know, research. Somehow end up on Amazon to check my sales rank. Make the mistake of Googling self. Shamed into getting back to work.

3:00 Hey, somehow I’ve managed to write six-to-ten workable pages. That means it’s time for a reward. Let’s see if anything’s happening on Twitter. Oh, look, all my author friends are procrastinating too. Convince self this is promo and spend an hour making jokes about weremonkeys.

4:00 Realize I’m still in PJs. Rush to take shower and put on real clothes before husband gets home.

5:00 Mr. Jaye gets home. Asks me how my day was. I tell him I’m very excited about weremonkeys. He gives me The Look. Tells me he spent his day in meetings and fighting traffic. I pity him. He asks if I did any laundry since everyone in the house is out of clean underpants. I laugh at him. We go get Spawn.

5:30 After my stressful day, I simply can not cook. We eat at one of the restaurants we cycle through each week.

6:30 Get home, help Spawn do homework. Then it’s his bedtime routine of running through the house naked as I try to wrangle him into the shower. Manage to bathe child and wrestle him into PJs. Read to him. Lights out.

7:30 Head back downstairs, crack open laptop and spend rest of the evening playing Bejeweled and live Twittering whatever TV show I’m watching.

10:30 Get in bed and read a few chapters of whatever novel I’m into.

12:00 Realize I have to be up in six hours. Curse self for not getting more sleep. Dream of weremonkeys.

We continue to follow Mira Fedor, a young baroness with the ability to pilot sentient spaceships, in her attempt to liberate her home planet Araldis from hostile forces. As the Orion League of Sentient Species seems unable or unwilling to help, she’s forced to enlist the help of ruthless mercenary captain Rast Randall. But Rast’s contacts may have their own, more sinister agenda in mind . . .

With previous books in the series being lauded as:  ‘Brilliant in all sense of the word’ (Sean Williams),  and ‘A beautifully plotted, full-on action ride with gorgeous twists’(Aurealis), we suggest you take the advice that Hub Magazine gave about the series:

‘Readers who hunger for perceptive, intelligent and unflinching literary science fiction should seek this book out as soon as possible’

You can read an extract here.

The soiree featured delectable delicacies, luscious libations, oscillating octopi, parasols aplenty, a bevy of neo-Victorian beauties, as well as numerous delightful dandies — and all immortalized in glossy color photos by photographer Britt Hart.

Treacle tart, anyone?

So, I’m happy to report back with my findings. It’s a pretty short list and really only consists of one item: I need a new liver.

Between the parties (our own and everyone else’s), the meetings, the socializing, the hazing—er, wait, I don’t think I’m supposed to talk about that one—I’m feeling a real need for some downtime to recharge.

But aside from the whingeing, the Orbit party was a classy shindig, if I may say so myself. I had a great time getting to know the authors I’ve been working with for over a year now and have never met face to face. I must say that each and every one of them was an absolute delight and I had a total blast hanging out with them. Robert Jackson Bennett’s got a fabulous pair of Texas cowboy boots and a bottle of suspect, hundred proof, hobo liquor to go with them. Amanda and her husband Stephen I’d had the pleasure of meeting before and it was great to catch up with them. Terry DeHart and I sat down over dinner to talk a little post-apocalypse and other cheerful, sundry matters. And I had a coffee with Seanan McGuire—er, excuse me, Mira Grant. We had a lovely chat about zombies and plagues and the general pleasures of killing off entire states (also unintentional interest from homeland security and generally the ability to terrify the face off of innocent bystanders). Jesse Bullington is the nicest man with the most twisted imagination you’ll ever meet and his friends are from my hometown which I eventually stopped holding against them.

Greg Bear and his lovely wife Astrid, both of whom I hadn’t seen in nearly a year, took the time to introduce me to Robert Silverberg and Tim Powers. They regaled us with stories of shotgun antics and convention derring-do after I unwisely admitted this was my first convention. I sat there listening to Robert Silverberg talk about working with Isaac Asimov and Tim Powers telling stories of Philip K. Dick and thought to myself, ‘hey, this thing is alright.’ I had a great time over breakfast with Greg and Astrid later talking about movies and the future of science fiction and I think we might have just about ironed out a plot to take the whole industry over.

I’ve been told that Gail Carriger’s party was the best suite party a con has ever seen—sadly for me that means it’s all downhill from there. All I know is that I was swilling some great home-brew gin and sneaking earl grey truffles when Victorian-dressed maids swept by with silver platters of finger food. I met Peter V. Brett there and saw Brent Weeks and didn’t realize my evening was about to take a turn for the rougher end of things… I’ll just point you back to Brent’s twitter stream, shall I?

Also, I got to sit down for a few minutes before dashing off to catch my plane to New York with Marc Laidlaw and geek out over Half Life. I might have gushed on him a bit there—sorry Marc!

Anyhow, thanks to everyone I met at World Fantasy this year: from Orbit authors to agents to living legends to aspiring writers. I had a fantastic time and look forward to seeing everyone again soon!

First, I learned many things. The foremost of which can be distilled down to four words: Authors talk…about editors.  WHOA!!! I had no idea.  I guess they talk about other things as well, but let’s focus on me…I mean, what I’ve learned.  First, they get together in a secret cabal and they hang out together in large groups where they discuss their respective editors.  WHO KNEW ABOUT THIS AND DIDN’T TELL ME????  That‘s what I want to know.

So, because of this top secret thing that authors do, I have invented two secret weapons. And I want you know that I have both of them on hand for everyone’s authors. I have no problem helping out my fellow editors. So #1 item to buy your editor for Christmas? Well, I can’t tell you that – I can reveal that it is very small and can listen in on all your conversations. ANYWHERE. So, supposedly there is this to help you against evil editors (like me), but be warned. We know where you write.  ALL OF YOU. My second item is also very popular and has to do with force fields. So if you (an author) get too close – i.e. talking distance of another author: POOF and on it goes, leaving both you talking in a vacuum and unable to communicate with each other. It is all part of my awesome plan to divide and conquer. Genius…It comes in many forms.

At this point, I’m guessing that most of you don’t want me to keep on my mad scientist hat and would like to know what actually happened at World Fantasy. I have one word for you: Drinking.  Yes. That was the theme this year at WFC. As it was last year, and the year before and the year before that.  After a long and arduous trip flying out of New York and into San Jose, we arrived mostly in one piece and ready to wine and dine. Orbit was there in full force, which was lovely to see: DongWon Song (Associate Editor), Tim Holman (Publisher), Alex Lencicki (Publicity and Marketing Director), Jack Womack (Publicity Manger) and ME (Really, at this point, do I need an intro? But for you plebians, Devi Pillai, Senior Editor).

 I had a lovely meeting with Sally Harding of the Cooke Agency who is the agent for Jesse Bullington and A. Lee Martinez, both of whom Orbit publishes and the former of whom was at our party later that night at the Loft Bar and Bistro.  I also chatted briefly with Jo Fletcher, the luminous Editorial Director of Gollancz and talked about authors over the pond as well as here.

Our party was smashing, crowded enough that it looked HUGE, I mean, a respectable size, but not such a crush that you got claustrophobic and left after a minute of looking in through the door.  We had a smashing time and we introduced a lot of our new authors (some new to Orbit and some just plain new) to our fellow WFC conventioneers: Jesse Bullington, Robert Jackson Bennett, Gail Carriger, Amanda Downum, Greg Bear, Jon Courtney Grimwood, Terry deHart, Seanan McGuire, Kim Stanley Robinson, Kate Elliott, N. K. Jemisin, Brent Weeks.

Saturday, I had a lovely breakfast of Huevos Rancheros that our waiter recommended – AMAZING.  And then it was a busy day full of meetings. Among them, Laurie McLean at the Larsen-Pomada Agency where we chatted briefly about Jennifer Rardin and her next projects as well as new authors.  We chatted with Kate McKean at the Howard Morhaim Agency about zombies!

And then, we had afternoon tea with Jon Courtenay Grimwood. It was absolutely lovely and we adored the tea cosies and chatted about life, books, mostly, TEA!!! We also had a lovely time discussing the future – and the past of publishing with Jon Parker and John Berlyne at the Zeno Agency. We also met with the lovely Liza at Locus and discussed the fate of the mass market as well as e-books.  We then had a lovely dinner with the amazing (by Amazing, I mean, New York Times Amazing) writer of The Way of Shadows, Mr. Brent Weeks and his lovely wife Kristi.  The conversation centered around monkeys throwing poo and pork pies. Both of which were NOT related.

And then, we went to Gail Carriger’s amazing party for her launch of Soulless. It was fabulous. And she was lovely enough to remember my obsession (sad as it was) WITH CHEESE!! Now, the highlight of this party – which was busy from the second it opened (authors heard about food – and the rest, as we say, is history….)  — I GOT CARDED. Yes. Me!!! I asked the bartender, REALLY??? in an incredulous voice, to which the Armenian Lover #1 (or so Gail calls him) said, YES, in a very stern voice. I was so happy I almost did a back flip and dug through for my wallet and called everyone to tell them I got carded. Really, the best thing EVER to happen to me at a convention. It almost made me shed a tear of joy!!!  It’s all about the Indian genes people…

And then, there was the bar. Full of drinking, more drinking and drinking. Joining the Orbit team in copious amounts of alcohol (sorry, I meant, joining us for a drink!!!): Amanda Downum and her husband, Jesse Bullington with his friend Molly, Robert Jackson Bennett and his wife Ashley, Brent Weeks with his wife Kristi, Blake Charlton, Myke Cole, Kate McKean, Peter Brett. I believe the evening can be summed up by this tweet.   Many things happened, most of which I’m sure will be up on YouTube very very soon….

Sunday was a quiet breakfast with Gail Carriger, gushing about the party the night before and about book #3 which she just turned in, BLAMELESS.  Oh yeah. Can’t wait for that can you??? Then the long flight to…bed.

Devi

TEMPEST RISING is the story of Jane True, outcast, night swimmer, and half-selkie. It’s a fabulous world full of characters straight out of myth, from rock gnomes that bag groceries to a sea pony named Trill. What made this one really stand out for me was the fact that Jane True  didn’t live in big urban city, but in a small town off the coast of Maine.  The big attraction there? The Old Sow, a whirlpool that once in a while throws out something interesting. Like a dead body.  Which is how Jane True discovers — and is dragged into—a world of supernaturals that she didn’t even know existed in her small and sleepy town.

Coincidentally, the author, Nicole Peeler, works in Shreveport – and her writing did remind me of a certain waitress from that part of the county.

Nicole has a bunch of links on her website, including a post she did for John Scalzi’s The Big Idea Blog, excerpts from the book, and, of course, the obligatory photos of cats enjoying the book.

Check it out this week in bookstores everywhere. Oh, and I should also tell you that #2, Tracking the Tempest, will be out next July for your reading pleasure.

Black Ships and Hand of Isis were some of the first books I read from Orbit when I joined the team here, and they’re books I still press into people’s hands when they come to visit the office. They’re really well-written books in the vein of Mists of Avalon and I can’t give higher praise than that, people. The books are not quite a series in that you can read them in any order, and they don’t follow each other chronologically. However they are tied together by the characters and I won’t say more than that because I don’t want to give it away.

Stealing Fire is a bit different in that the first two novels had a female lead character, and this one has a hero rather than heroine. But don’t let that scare you away if you are a girly reader like me and gravitate towards the female-driven fantasy… You can absolutely relate to the story and all the characters in the book. Here’s a description:

This is the tale of Alexander’s soldier, Lydias of Miletus, who having survived the final campaigns of the king’s life now has to deal with the chaos surrounding his death.  Still mourning his Indian wife, Sati, and their infant son, who were killed in Gedrosia, Lydias throws his lot in with Ptolemy, one of Alexander’s generals who has grabbed Egypt as his personal territory.
As the generals fight and plot and murder, it seems as though Alexander’s dreams will slip away entirely.  But the gods of Egypt have other ideas, and they are through with neither Ptolemy nor Lydias.  Lydias has served them before, when another armada threatened to overrun Egypt in the distant past, and now they will aid Ptolemy in his most audacious plan — stealing Alexander’s body and bringing it to Egypt to be an eternal bulwark against invasion, and the cornerstone of the city that would exemplify his dreams.
Aided by the eunuch Bagoas, the Persian archer Artashir, and the Athenian courtesan Thais, Ptolemy and Lydias must take on all the contenders in a desperate adventure whose prize is the fate of a white city by the sea, and Alexander’s legacy.

Here is John Jude Palencar’s original painting, without all my type to muck it up:

My wife and I have been fighting nearly constantly in the past days. I’ve been sleeping on the couch. We’d fight about things I don’t even understand. She would talk of events and times that had no meaning to me. And when I tried to talk about better times, times I want things to be like again, she’d stare at me as though I was insane.

Then today I got several voicemails from Dan. His voice was raspy and strange and distant, as though the call was coming from far, far away. On the other side of the world, maybe. It was hard to tell what he was saying, and often it sounded like he was trying to keep his voice down. At the start of the first one it sounded like he was running, maybe running from something.

He told me he’d figured out what was going on. There were alternates nearly exactly like ours, he said, where things were happening alongside us at nearly the same pace. “When I wake up, the other Dan wakes up,” he hissed at me. “When I eat breakfast, the other Dan eats breakfast. When I make a machine, he makes a machine as well. And when I go through a door and cross over, he goes through and crosses over as well. Don’t you see the potential there? You could cross over and swap lives with someone and never know that you’re living another man’s life! You’d pass each other by and settle into the life the other one was living and never know it! It’s all up to chance! You… You could-” Then he swore loudly as though he’d been attacked by someone. There was the sound of scuffling and someone hung up.

I stood in silence for a long while. My breath came slow and labored. I knew I wanted to see Dan right away, but he had not told me how to contact him. So I went next door, took a breath, and opened the front door to his house.

The foyer was close and dark. All the lights were off, and when I stared into the rooms beyond they seemed to be miles away. There were sounds of footfalls from upstairs. Not of one person, but of many. Maybe dozens of people, walking back and forth. And every few seconds there was the slam of a door.

I wondered if I should call out his name. But I did not, and instead I slowly mounted the stairs.

What I found at the top is difficult to say. Reality did not work there anymore. But I thought I saw halls. Thousands of wooden halls, stretching off into infinity in limitless directions, and along each hall were rows upon rows of doors.

I remembered this sight. I had dreamed of it, or walked it once. I’d thought it unreal, but here it was. I had been there before.

And like before, there were figures passing among the halls. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. They were dark and faint as they hurried back and forth, striding through the doors as though they had business on their minds, and they did not pay attention to one another. Some looked terrified and worried, others furious. Sometimes I thought I saw Dan, but he did not seem to be himself, and so I said nothing.

And sometimes… Sometimes I thought I saw…

No. No, I can’t say it.

I did not stay in that place for long. Thinking that he would not be there, I left and went to the park. He said he stayed there to catch a breather.

The park seemed to be empty. I walked through it for some time, though. It felt nice to be among all the sidewalk paths. There seemed to be so many, splitting apart and joining back together again. After a while I didn’t even know where I was going.

While I was walking I got another call from Dan. Again, he seemed very far away. He could not hear me speaking. I said “hello” several times, but he did not respond. I eventually quieted to hear what he had to say.

“More of them are coming through now, Robert,” he whispered. “More of the alternates. I’ve been hiding in my house, in that maze upstairs, and I’ve been watching them. I’ve… I’ve seen myself. Over and over again, walking through the doors, looking for something. Sometimes I would be different, but other times it was like looking in a mirror.

 “And I’ve seen you,” he said softly. “You, Robert. Many times. I’ve seen you coming out of the doors. Sometimes walking out to the street, like you knew what you were doing. Other times you did not, and you just wandered.”

He swallowed. “You need to leave town. Get a cab and go out to the country, to some motel or something, and just hide out there. I’ll… I’ll call when things are safe. I’m on the verge of something, of some way to fix all this. I just need a bit more time.”

Then at the end he said, “If you see… Well. If you see Dan, tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I’m sorry about his wife. I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to be here at all.”

Then he hung up. I held the phone in my hand for some time. Then I jumped in my car and drove home.

I did not see anyone on the street when I pulled up. When I entered the house I found my wife was in tears, and she was packing a suitcase.

I asked her what had happened. She said she didn’t want to speak to me, she didn’t want to even look at me, I was acting so erratic. I asked what had happened again and she said she didn’t know what was wrong with me, clearly something had gone wrong but she wasn’t going to get hurt by it.

In a panic, I began asking her questions. I sounded eerily like Dan had only a day or two ago, asking about the state of our lives, about what she knew of me and I of her. She asked if it would make me feel better if she answered my questions, and I said it would. She seemed to steel herself, and then began.

I found her answers terrifying. She did not seem to remember anything of our past together. She could not even remember where we’d been when 10/14 happened, and how could she not? How could she not know, when we had been so close that we could see the dust from Ground Zero?

Then she angrily said that she wasn’t sure why she was answering these questions. After all, she said, she’d answered them three times today.

I stared at her, stunned. Three times, I asked? She said yes, and then she looked at me, frightened. She asked what I had done with the shotgun.

What shotgun, I asked? The one I’d gotten out of the closet, she said. The shotgun I’d bought for skeet a year ago. She said I’d promised her to never bring live ammunition in the house, and yet not more than an hour ago I’d come in with shells and begun loading the thing on the bed and would not tell her what I was doing.

I asked her if she was certain about that. She said of course she was. She asked what I had done with it, and I had no answer for her. Furious, she drove off.

I think it was for the best, really.

I went to the bedroom, and turned on the light. There on the bed was a shotgun case, unlocked and opened and empty.

I have never bought a shotgun before.

I sat down and thought. I found a photo album on the beside table and flipped through it. I saw myself and my wife, but in places I cannot recall ever visiting. Places I have wanted to visit, but never have. Then, very irrationally, I went to this blog and looked at the previous posts. I’m not sure why. But what I saw didn’t surprise me.

I did not remember writing any of these posts. At least, any before the dream. And they talk about things I have never done or seen.

I began to wonder how easy it was to fall asleep in your life and wake up in someone else’s. I wondered who had been writing these posts to you, and where he was, and what business I have finishing this story or living this life.

After all, how can you ever be sure that what’s coming out is what you originally put in?

Thirty minutes later I heard the gunshots from next door. Three or four, deep throaty booms of what I assumed was a shotgun. I waited, not moving. Then there were two more. Another pause. Then one more. Then silence.

I waited for an hour in front of my computer, not moving. I did not hear sirens, nor did I hear any other shots. Then, slowly, I stood up and walked next door and pushed the gate open.

Dan was in the back yard. He was lying face down. His right leg had been hit and he’d been shot again in the middle of his back. He’d died with his nose bleeding. From the position it seemed he’d been executed on his knees, facing his shed.

I quietly wondered what questions his executioner had asked him. I felt I knew. He’d asked Dan how to stop it, or how to go home, and Dan had not known.

I swallowed, and then walked to the shed and opened the door.

Crumpled inside was the form of a man. A shotgun lay on the floor across his knees. From the looks of it, he’d tried to shoot the machine, but it had done no good. The machine was whole, but the card table was ripped and torn from the shot. Then he had turned the gun on himself.

I looked at the man. His injury made him unrecognizable. But I recognized the shirt, and the jeans, and the scar on his right hand. The patch of hair he could never shave clean under the angle of his jaw. The fingernails he constantly bit. He looked very worn, though, and somehow thin, but not skinny. It was like if he’d lasted any longer he’d turn clear. And it looked as though he’d been wandering for a long time.

He was wearing ostrich skin boots. I have never bought ostrich skin boots.

I looked out the shed window. I saw Dan’s yard, but in the window the grass was a darker green, and the sky had a bronze hue to it. And there were several bodies lying askew on the lawn. Not just Dan, but men and women I did not now, and one child. I walked out of the shed and found just Dan lying there again, and I wondered what was going on in all those other worlds, and if it were possible for any of the lost people to ever get home. And even if you got home, would you know it? If you found the world or the wife you left, would you even recognize them at all?

I left both the bodies, but took the shotgun. I found more shells on the man in the shed. I’ve packed myself a duffel, filled with what I think I’ll need to survive. Dried meat and tinned food and a first aid kit and a flashlight.

I’m not staying here any longer. I’m going to go over to the house next door and I’m going home. I don’t care how many doors I have to open, and I don’t care what comes through. I’ll open every single door if I need to.

But I’m going home. I’m going home, damn you all. I’m going home.

I love it when someone spontaneously evolves into a future being with a giant veiny forehead, and then proceeds to threaten humanity with his awesome future intellect.

I love atomic brains from outer space.  Y’know the kind I’m talking about.  They’ve grown beyond the need for a body and just float around, causing all sorts of cosmic mischief.

I love radiation.  Radiation is always sure to be fun.  If it doesn’t kill you, then maybe you’ll get superpowers!  Isn’t that swell?

I love irradiated animals, and their ability to give you superpowers with just a single bite.  If I could order a radioactive grizzly bear through the mail, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

I love meteorites from space that bring slime monsters bent on devouring the planet.

I love giant mutant insects.  Giant mutant anything really.

I love (and miss) magical zombies.

I love mole people.  Whatever happened to mole people?  Mole people are awesome.

I love robots.  Little robots.  Big robots.  Good robots.  Evil robots.  Clunky 50’s style robots.  Sleek futuristic robots.  If they can transform into a dinosaur, all the better.  Robots are cool.  Except when they look like people.  Then I only like them.

I love Ogopogo.  Mostly because I love saying Ogopogo.

I loved Mothman before it was cool to love Mothman.

I love barbarian adventurers who regularly face (and defeat) rogue wizards and their demon gods.

I love squid-headed entities from beyond time and space who occasionally slip into this reality just long enough to drive a few people insane.  I don’t know why they do it, but I guess everybody’s gotta have a hobby.

I love ninjas, even if ninjas don’t always love me back.

I love Benjamin Franklin, who, though not technically a science fiction character, sometimes seems like he should be.

I love rocket packs.  Where the hell is my rocket pack?  It’s almost 2010, for cryin’ out loud.

I love ghost hunting reality shows that have nothing at all to do with ghosts and even less to do with reality.  But I love ‘em though I can’t give you a good reason other than it’s amusing to watch people get so excited about electromagnetic fields and garbled audio recordings.   Oh, and if a door should happen to shut without anyone touching it…well, that’s a party.

And I love Chupacabra.

These are just some of the things I love, and I’m awfully damned grateful that, even if none of these things are real, I get to pretend like they are and even get paid to do it.

By the way, I know that Benjamin Franklin was a real person.  Mothman possibly too.  They might even be the same person.  Think about it.  Have you ever seen them in the same room?  Far fetched?  Maybe not since there is compelling evidence that John Hancock was actually the Jersey Devil.

Oh, and I love the Jersey Devil.

Anyway, back to the books. The author has a fresh take on griffins, much more raw, and dangerous than the traditional fantasy griffins — and I wanted that to show through in the covers. These griffins are animal creatures first, and I think that’s never been explored before, so I have focused on those details of the griffins, and then just added touches of the story – in the first book you can just see the reflection of Kes in the griffin’s eye, and then in the second book you can see the role the desert will play.

I enjoyed these books a great deal, and they reminded me of Robin McKinley’s Hero and the Crown/The Blue Sword stories — which is a very good thing in my book. A female heroine pushed out of her comfortable ordinary world and forced to grow up and face a much more exciting, but dangerous larger world beyond her safe small town… I eat that stuff up. Here’s a description of the first book for you:

Little ever happens in the quiet villages of peaceful Feierabiand.  The course of Kes’ life seems set:  she’ll grow up to be an herb-woman and healer for the village of Minas Ford, never quite fitting in but always more or less accepted.  And she’s content with that path — or she thinks she is.  Until the day the griffins come down from the mountains, bringing with them the fiery wind of their desert and a desperate need for a healer.  But what the griffins need is a healer who is not quite human . . . or a healer who can be made into something not quite human.