I only read Mercedes Lackey when I am tired and want something moderately cute that I don't have to actually think about. I use her books to turn off my brain rather than to engage it... which is really kind of sad, when you think about it, but there it is.

(This is one of the sad things about getting older, developing more discriminating taste, and learning to think about things: there are a lot of books I remember liking -- or even loving -- when I was 8-18 years old that I now cannot reread, because frankly, they stink.)

I quit buying Anita Blake after Obsidian Butterfly, and have now quit reading the series altogether. There isn't any there there anymore, just Laurell K. Hamilton doing the literary equivalent of public masturbation.