Jeremy Robinson - MirrorWorld

With every book, I find writing acknowledgments more difficult. Not because I have no one to thank. Nothing could be further from the truth. It’s that, every year, I have the exact same group of people to thank. In a constantly shifting industry, I’ve been blessed to work with the same core team for the past eight years. But since my job is ultimately to entertain, I fear my repeating thanks to them is becoming redundant for any readers taking the time to peruse these acknowledgments. That said, these are the people who help make my books shine, and like my marriage, which is twenty years strong this year, each new year hones the relationships and improves the end result. So if the following acknowledgments sound familiar to long-term fans, know that these are the people who helped make all these crazy books possible.

Scott Miller at Trident Media Group, my agent and defender, who discovered my first self-published book ten years ago, we’re still just getting started. Peter Wolverton, my editor at Thomas Dunne Books, your honest edits and keen sense of story continue to act as this writer’s forge, refining my stories into something better. Mary Willems, it’s always a delight to work with you, and the critiques you provided for MirrorWorld were spot on and supremely helpful. Also always, thanks to Rafal Gibek and the production team at Thomas Dunne Books for copy edits and critique that make me look like a better writer than I am. Once again, I must thank the art department at Thomas Dunne Books, for supporting this author’s efforts to illustrate and design his own cover. It’s a rare treat. Kane Gilmour, editor of my solo projects and sometimes coauthor, thanks for your unwavering support, time, and energy. And as always, thanks to Roger Brodeur for awesome proofreading. Your attention to detail helps balance my blindness to typos.

Just as my publishing family has remained dedicated, I must also thank my real family, whose unwavering support and excitement about all my projects makes all of this even more fun. My children, Aquila, Solomon, and Norah, your creative energy reminds me of my own childhood and inspires me to keep my imagination young and flexible. And Hilaree, seriously, by the time our coauthored hardcover ( The Distance ) comes out next fall, we’ll have been married twenty years! Not only have you supported me all that time, you are now launching your own creative career as an author, poet, and artist (on top of homeschooling All. Three. Kids.) I couldn’t be more proud of you, and I look forward to watching your creative path evolve.

Perfect.

That’s how Bob Alford, vacationing widower-retiree, described his day by the pool, watching the scantily clad women, drinking mai tais, and admiring the sun’s lazy track through the sky. Perfect . Right up until the moment a man of equal age and better physical shape slapped against the concrete beside Alford’s lounge chair. The sharp, wet snap of a body hitting the solid ground opened Alford’s eyes, hidden behind a pair of boxy fit-over sunglasses. Annoyed by the interruption, he glanced at the man, whose wetness suggested he’d just come from the pool.

He closed his eyes again, but the image began to resolve like a photo in a darkroom displayed on the inside of his eyelids. The man wasn’t dressed for the pool. He was dressed for dinner. And the wetness on the pavement… was red. Dark red.

His eyes snapped open just as the first screams rang out. He turned toward the man again, this time noting that he looked flatter than he should, and broken. A pool of blood had formed around him. Definitely dead.

Knowing the man had not simply tripped, Alford turned his eyes up. He didn’t expect to see anything other than empty balconies. Maybe a few people looking down.

But there was something there. Something moving.

Oh my God —something falling. Someone! A woman plummeted from high above, her dinner dress fluttering like a flag caught by a stiff wind. As Alford’s horrified cry joined the chorus, the body sailed past, plunging into the pool. There was a moment of collective stunned silence as the poolside vacationers seemed to be waiting for the woman to surface. Even the lifeguard’s mind had shut down. Alford was the first to snap free from the strange trance. He ran to the edge, feeling momentary hope that the chlorine-scented pool could have saved the woman from the same fate as the man, but the water was already turning red.

While the pool emptied of screaming youth, Alford dove straight in. The water tore his sunglasses away, and the sudden crisp coolness stung his recently burnt skin like lit fireworks, but he didn’t give his discomfort a second thought as his body arced down through the water to the unconscious, maybe dead woman. He wrapped an arm around her chest, shoved off the bottom, and rose up to find a lifeguard reaching down. While Alford fought against creaking joints to lift himself over the pool’s edge, the lifeguard hoisted the woman onto the concrete and went to work, performing rapid CPR.

Exhausted by fear and effort, Alford gasped for breath while he stood over the lifeguard. People all around began snapping photos and tapping out messages on their phones. Then, hope blossomed. The woman breathed, deeply. Just once. With her final exhalation, she said, “The darkness came for us,” and then departed the world, lying in a puddle of water, ten feet away from the man lying in his own blood.

“What do you think?” Kelly Allenby said, striking a pose while wearing a gaudy, feathery cap. It barely held her wild salt-and-pepper hair down, and in the small shop’s elegant surroundings, it looked as ridiculous as she hoped it would. “Am I posh?”

“Fit for a royal wedding, you are,” her husband, Hugh, replied, failing miserably at matching his wife’s natural British accent.

She swatted his arm. “Bollocks, they won’t let me within a block of the palace. And, please, no more accent.”

“Is it really that bad?”

She placed the hat back on the mannequin’s head. “I just like your natural accent better.”

“That’s right,” Hugh said, reverting back to his natural Hebrew accent, exaggerating the rough h sound. “Hhhow do you like my Hhhebrew?” Hugh was born and raised by Jewish parents who immigrated to the United States. His Hebrew accent emerged when surrounded by family, but otherwise he had a bland American accent, which to an American meant he had no telltale accent at all.

“Hhhilarious,” she replied, patting his face. She glanced at the shopkeeper and saw he was far from enthused by their antics. When they’d entered the shop, he’d greeted them kindly, no doubt sensing a sale. But it quickly became clear they were simply amused by his wares. “Time to go.”

She took Hugh by the arm and dragged him to the door.

“But I still need to try on the hat,” he said.

“You need to buy me lunch.”

The bell above the door chimed as Hugh opened it and poured on his horrible British accent. “What’ll it be then, love? Jellied eels, cockles in vinegar, or some soggy tripe?”

Allenby laughed hard, but the sound of her voice was cut short. At once, the pair fell to their knees. A fear unlike anything Allenby had ever felt suddenly twisted inside her gut. Something was behind her!