Click below for information about each book in the series with book club discussion questions.

Click on the map to see Jade's maps from all four books.

EXCERPT FROM THE SERPENT'S DAUGHTER "The Atlantic coastline bears witness to the multitudes of cultures that laid claim to Morocco at one time or another. Portuguese fortresses sit on top of Roman foundations which sit on top of Phoenician storage cellars. Most of the underground levels have filled in or been forgotten by everyone except the jinni. The ones who shun salt seem to favor caves, ruins, and dirt, rather like children." -- The Traveler.

     At the backside of the city, the houses abutted the wall, or perhaps considering the age of some of the dwellings, formed the wall. The Berber paused to collect his bearings then led Jade to an ancient wooden doorway, partially broken, tucked into a narrow recess. A stylized black hand, fingers touching and pointing down, marked the door. Inside the hand was a red diamond shape. Remnants of stonework indicated that this had once been an interior doorway, the surrounding structure long gone. None of the nearby dwellings showed signs of habitation or other use. Clearly people shunned this area. Even the local cats avoided it. Her guide nodded towards the door.

     “Inside?” asked Jade in French. The man nodded again. She pointed to the man’s chest. “Will you come, too?” This time he shook his head no and stepped back a pace.

     “The people who shun salt and iron live inside,” he said.

     Clearly he feared the spirits he believed dwelled within. Well, spirits or no, Jade needed to find her mother and if she was still inside, she meant to go in after her. She removed her portable flashlight from the bag and switched it on.

     The dirt by the door showed signs from where the door had been dragged open over it. Footprints overrode some of the drag marks. The question was, how recently were they made? In this alcove the air smelled stale, as though it didn’t circulate often. There probably wasn’t enough wind then to blow the sandy dirt, which meant the door could have been opened today or last month. She squatted down and tried to sort through the number of footprints but couldn’t make out anything clearly. Rising, she tugged on the door and forced it open.

     Her guide tapped her shoulder. When she turned, he pressed a chunk of iron into her hands, the remains of a worn knife. “It has baraka,” he said.

     Jade had read about baraka, a term for the holiness attached to certain objects, people, or deeds. It seemed to be fragile, easily lost by doing something harmful. Jade acknowledged his gift with a nod then stepped into a wall of stale air, redolent of decay and earth. A hint of ammonia wafted past her, indication of stale urine. Startled by the door’s noise and the sound of her footsteps, a family of mice scurried past. Jade caught a brief flashing of some object in one mouse’s mouth. Packrats of some sort, she thought and paid no more attention. She scented dampness in the air, perhaps moist sea air collected and held in the stone and earthen walls. Once more she turned her head to silently question her guide. He stood pressed against the opposite wall of abandoned dwellings, as far away from the doorway as possible, his right hand raised in front of his face, fingers splayed in some sign to ward off evil. His left hand held a piece of iron.

     “Wait,” she said in French, then added, “Please.”

     Her flashlight played across the floor and the stucco walls, but did little to penetrate the gloom beyond. She walked slowly, pausing every ten steps to listen and to sweep the floor with her flashlight beam. Someone had walked in here, but how long ago was still unclear. She stooped and examined the prints, hoping to find something indicating her mother. Then it hit her. She had no idea what type of shoe or boot her mother had on. There was certainly a print here that looked small enough to belong to her mother.

     “Mother,” she called into the black recesses. Her voice echoed off the walls and disturbed a few bats hanging near the entrance. They fluttered past her, their wings brushing against her hair. Probably just woke up some jinni. She wondered if they’d frighten her guide into vacating his post. Jade decided she’d follow these footprints as far as she could, before heading back. If she didn’t find her mother soon, she’d head back to Tangier and demand help from the American Consulate.

     The tunnel led straight back for fifty yards before it turned left and angled down. Stone walls replaced the stucco as she descended beneath the floor of the present city. The air smelled dank with mold, the walls moist and green. It turned cooler as she continued, like entering into a cave. The tunnel took a sharp right down a flight of worn stone steps, their surface polished by countless feet. Another right, and Jade knew she was heading back under the city.

     A new odor tickled her nostrils, a human smell. She sniffed, testing the air. She detected stale perspiration and something else; something cloying, reminiscent of a meat market. Blood. Jade hastened forward and saw that the tunnel forked ahead. In her haste, she nearly tripped over the body. There, at her feet, lay a Moroccan on his right side, knife in his back. His length spanned the width of the tunnel, his left arm pointing to the right fork.