MirrorWorld.

Jeremy Robinson.

For all you readers who have taken the time to write and post a review for one of my books. Every one helps, and I truly appreciate the effort!.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

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 ill.u.s.trate 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 coauth.o.r.ed 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.

PROLOGUE.

LAS CROABAS, PUERTO RICO.

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 sungla.s.ses. 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 G.o.d-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 sungla.s.ses 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.

LONDON, ENGLAND.

"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. "b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, 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, c.o.c.kles 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!

Hugh took her hand. "Kel, what-"

His eyes suddenly went wide. She watched the hairs on his neck stand straight like the most disciplined beefeater. He felt it, too.

And then he felt it more.

With a scream of pure fright, Hugh spun around. He scrambled away from something unseen, but felt. He climbed to his feet, screaming, out of his mind, and then in a flash of unforgiving violence, he was removed from his body. He had run into the busy street, directly into the path of one of London's hallmark double-decker buses. The swift-moving, seven-ton vehicle struck him hard and carried him from view.

While the bus's brakes squealed and its occupants shouted, Allenby sprung to her feet, pursued by something unseen, her need to race to her husband's aid replaced by the uncontrollable urge to run in another direction. As she scrambled forward, she failed to hear the shop bell ring behind her. Oblivious to the still-moving traffic in the lanes beyond the bus, Allenby charged ahead, destined to meet the same fate as her beloved.

Unlike Hugh, she never made it into the traffic. The shopkeeper had seen everything, alerted by a sudden and fleeting spike of fear. He didn't react in time to save Hugh, but he tackled Allenby to the pavement, holding her in place for five minutes while she screamed in unhinged terror. And then, all at once, the strange mania wore off. She wept for her husband, but only for a moment. Clarity slammed into her with a gasp and she took out her phone, scrolling through her contacts with a shaking hand.

NORTHWOOD, NEW HAMPSHIRE.

The creak of the staircase sounded like the high-pitched whir of a dentist's drill, making Maya Shiloh cringe. It wasn't because she feared the dentist or that the sound would wake her son, it was because the creak came from three steps above and behind her.

She spun around with a gasp. The stairs were empty.

She paused halfway down the old wooden steps as a shiver ran through her body. Her arms shook, the nervous energy working its way out through her fingers. She clenched her fists. Reined in control. She'd never been one to scare easily, but the dream that had woken her ...

Images of her drowning son, just out of reach, flashed back into her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut and calmed herself with a deep breath. She'd been crying when she woke. Sobbing. The tears had faded when she realized it had been a nightmare, though the white, salty streaks crisscrossing her cheeks remained.

She'd checked on Simon immediately. He slept soundly, his stuffed triceratops clutched in his arms. His eight-year-old chest rose and fell with each gentle breath. This was his last night in this house, at least for a while. They'd already moved into their furnished apartment across town, but he'd requested one last night, nearly in tears. How could she say "no"? Seeing him sound asleep and peaceful had calmed her, but a sense of dread, that time was short, increased with each downward step.

There were three clocks in the house: an antique grandfather clock in the foyer, six steps below her; a designer clock hung in the kitchen, the numbers centered above '50s-style bathing-suit-clad women; and a cheap plastic number in her husband's rarely used office. Their out-of-sync ticking filled the home with a sense of haste.

She descended into the foyer, opened the grandfather clock, and caught its pendulum, stopping its operation. She glanced through the living room to her husband's office, where the second offender ticked away. As was often the case, her husband wasn't home. Working late. Again. She didn't mind. They'd soon be together more often, and his work was important. But she longed for his strong, calming presence. He would be able to unravel the fear twisting around her.

So can wine, she thought.

Ignoring the office clock, which she wouldn't be able to hear from the kitchen, she entered the dining room and skirted the table, feeling her way through the dark. As her fingers slid over the top of the hutch's faux weathered surface, goose b.u.mps sprang to life on her arms. She couldn't see anything, but the fine hairs standing on end tickled her skin.

She hadn't heard or seen anything other than the kitchen's ticking clock, but she sensed something ... horrible. Someone is in the room, she thought, and said, "h.e.l.lo?" She immediately felt foolish. If a malicious burglar lay in wait, he wouldn't reply.

After three silent steps back, she slid her hand across the canvas-textured wallpaper and stopped when she found the round plastic dimmer switch. She twisted the small k.n.o.b clockwise until it stopped. It clicked when she pushed it in.

The eight-bulb chandelier hanging over the table, seven if you didn't count the blown bulb, illuminated the room with a suddenness that made Maya squint. She fought against closing her eyes, scouring the room for danger that did not exist. The only aberration in the room was the stacks of empty moving boxes, waiting to be filled and moved to the new apartment.

A warm breeze, like breath, on the nape of her neck spun her around. She screamed and swung out with hooked fingers, some primal part of her rising to the surface to defend the modern woman.

But she was alone. Still.

"Dammit." She stood for a moment, hands on the hutch. Her heart beat hard in her chest, the flow of blood through her body carrying unnecessary and uncomfortable adrenaline. Her stomach muscles quivered.

She searched the room again, confirming her paranoia.

Maya continued toward the kitchen, peeking through the doorway before entering. The sensation of being followed chewed at the base of her skull, commanding her to turn around. The room stood empty. She had no doubt, though her instincts disagreed.

She flicked on the kitchen light, revealing nothing more horrifying than a collection of dirty dishes. While her husband liked things neat and tidy, she let messes pile up before giving them any attention.

Twelve conservatively dressed bathing beauties looked down at her from the ticking designer clock. The gentle click of each pa.s.sing second felt like a hammer striking an anvil. She looked at the clock and then toward the cupboard above the stove, where she kept the wine.

Wine first, she thought, then the clock.

The Pinot Noir, about the only wine she had a marginal palate for, opened with a loud pop. The tangy scent made her nose scrunch. She wasn't a fan of how wine tasted. She rated the various types by degrees of nasty. Her interest in the drink had nothing to do with taste or the rustic flavor of oak, hints of boysenberry, or whatever bulls.h.i.t they put on the label. It simply put her to sleep. Fast. And that was exactly what she needed.

Failing to find a clean gla.s.s, she opted for a mug. Filled it to the top. She stared down at the chipped pottery. A gift from her husband. Her reflection in the deep purple liquid looked distorted and ugly, despite her bright blue eyes, high cheekbones, and lips framed by dimples. As a strong sense of fear crept back into her gut, she lifted the mug to her lips, sneering at the flavor the way her son did with cold medicine. Squeezing her cheeks together to prevent the bitter liquid from striking the sides of her tongue, she swallowed a mouthful. Then another. After taking a deep breath, she downed half the mug.

It was all she could handle. She shook her head in disgust, put the mug down, and turned to the clock.

Tick, tick, tick.

As the alcohol warmed her stomach, she felt her limbs relax.

"Your turn," she said to the clock.

She dragged her black rocking chair beneath the clock, which was mounted just beyond her short reach. Simon would be taller than her in the next year or two. By the time he was a teen, he would tower over her. Unsteady on her tiptoes, she caught the clock and lifted it away from the wall. Back on her heels, she turned the clock around, unclipped the plastic battery case, and removed a single AA battery.

"There." She reached up, lifting the clock back to its high perch.

A shiver ran through her legs, traveled through her abdomen, and settled in her chest. She gasped for breath as her skin went cold and goose b.u.mps returned. To her arms. Her legs. Her long, wavy black hair shifted as the follicles tensed. With adrenaline rushing alcohol through her veins, she saw movement in the clock's gla.s.s front. Someone was in the house! Her eyes flicked toward the dark shape as the rest of her body reacted with panic.

She spun around to face the intruder, but the rocking chair, wine, and her own limbs conspired against her. With a shout, she fell. The gla.s.s clock front shattered on the hard tile floor, a kaleidoscope of curved shards spreading out around her.

Footsteps to the right. From the dining room.

Her throat clasped shut. Each breath came as a gasp.

Gla.s.s crunched under the intruder's feet. Her mind shouted at her, Defend yourself! Defend your son! Images filled her mind. Her drowning son. Her murdered son.

She moved quickly, half aware, lost in a frantic mental slideshow displaying images of Simon's death. Fear consumed her, deforming her perception of the world around her, and she fought against it and her attacker with blind rage. She opened her eyes, just once, and saw four angry red eyes staring back. The pitch of her screaming grew painful to her own ears, but she kept attacking, fighting for her life.

For her son's life.

A vague awareness of being struck began her journey back to lucidity. She felt claws scratching at her, pulling at her cheeks. She fought against the attacker, striking again and again, too afraid of those eyes to look again. The sound of her screaming voice drowned out the high-pitched shriek of the monster attacking her, the thing she'd seen in the clock's reflection.

It wasn't until her enemy, now beneath her, stopped struggling that she dared to look at it. What she saw made no sense-a nightmare invading reality.

She saw her son, lying beneath her, still drowning, but this time in blood. His own. It seeped from a number of wounds covering his body. His hand, resting against her cheek, fell away. His eyes shifted up, widened, and then changed. The energy behind them faded.

He was dead.

Reality collided with her, knocking her back. She slammed into the fridge. Sharp pain drew her eyes to her hand. A long shard of gla.s.s, covered in blood, poked her palm. She loosened her grip and glanced from the clear triangular dagger to her son's punctured body.

The phone rang. It rang and rang and rang, playing backup to her anguished screams.

Her insides quivered, fear returning, gently molding her actions. She lifted the gla.s.s still in her hand. Placed it against her wrist. And pulled.

Somewhere, a door slammed open. A voice shouted her name. And then, it too joined the pained chorus of despair and parental loss.

I want to tell you a joke. The punch line might elude me for a time, but we'll get there. I tend to ramble. Details make humor more robust, I think, though some would prefer I skip right to the end. Too bad for them; I don't give a f.u.c.k.

A guy and a girl walk into a bar. He's a philistine. The build suggests exfootball player. The high-and-tight haircut screams military, but the c.o.c.ksure way he carries himself tells me he was too chickens.h.i.t to handle war and is boosting his ego by intimidating the folks of this small town.

I don't know the name of the town. It was dark when I strolled past the WELCOME TO sign. The bar's sign was well lit, though, THE HUNGRY HORSE. I'm not sure if that's some kind of reference to something. Maybe there are a lot of horses in the fields around town. I don't know. Like I said, it was dark. Maybe the bar's owner just likes horses? I'm not sure if I do. Can't remember if I've ever been on one.

Can't remember much beyond an hour ago, which should concern me, but it doesn't.

I think I'll remember the girl hanging on the philistine's arm, though. Just a quick glance is enough to etch the curves of her body in the permanent record of my short memory. It's not that she's beautiful. She's caked in so much makeup that her true self, and worth, are impossible to see. Anyone with that much to hide is either the victim of unfortunate parentage or concealing their guilty conscience.

I never wear makeup. At least, I don't think I would.

The woman's voluptuousness is as artificial as her face, and thrice-dyed hair. Something tight hugs her waist. Probably her thighs, too. She's a too-full sausage, ready to burst. And while her b.r.e.a.s.t.s are prodigious, they're held aloft by an underwire bra capable of holding a child. Nothing about her is honest, except for her eyes-desperate and pleading for attention.

I don't give it to her.

Anyone who does is a fool.

And there is a fool in every bar.

The man sitting across the room from me, on the far side of the worn pool table, beneath a neon-pink Budweiser sign and a mounted largemouth ba.s.s, watches the giggly entrance with wide-eyed fascination. She might as well be a peac.o.c.k, strutting about, flashing her wares, entrancing the susceptible. That's a poor metaphor. She's not a male peac.o.c.k, and she's not simply entrancing.

She's luring. Like an anglerfish, she dangles her quick meal, summoning her prey. Much better.