Publisher Description

"Magic and mystery draw you [in]...Can I make a reservation yet?" --James Riley, New York Times bestselling author of the Story Thieves series
"A wild ride across the globe, full of fun, adventure, and genuine heart." --Kevin Sands, New York Times bestselling author of the Blackthorn Key series
"Danger, fun, and heartbreak abound in this rollicking magical adventure." --Lisa McMann, New York Times bestselling author of The Unwanteds series
"A fantasy adventure...will draw fans of A Wrinkle in Time." --Booklist A magical hotel, a mysterious tree, and a cryptic story about their missing father leads twins Cam and Cass on a worldly adventure in this enchanting debut novel that's perfect for fans of Escape from Mr. Lemoncello's Library and Wildwood. Twins Cam and Cass have never known their parents. They've been told their mother died, and Cass is certain their father abandoned them. Cam isn't so sure. He wants to prove her wrong; he must. Cam's wish is soon granted in the form of a glistening, golden sign with elaborate flourishes that reads: The Hotel Between. With doors that open to countries all over the world, magical trollies, charmed corridors that can be altered on a whim, stone elephants that come to life, sweets made from rocks; everything is possible in the Hotel. Cam has a hunch his father is somehow connected to this magical place, and may even be lost within its hidden halls. Every journey has its risks, and The Hotel Between is full of dangerous secrets. If Cam's not careful, his stay may be over before his vacation has even started.

Author Biography

Sean Easley started writing in third grade because he was looking for adventure. He's worked with kids and teens for well over a decade, listening to their stories, and somehow ended up with a Master's degree in education along the way. Now he's a full-time writer living with his wife and son in Texas, where he stubbornly refuses to wear cowboy boots. Visit him at SeanEasley.com and on Twitter and Instagram @AuthorEasley.

Review

"Magic and mystery draw you into The Hotel Between, and I couldn't leave until I knew all its secrets. Can I make a reservation yet?"
--James Riley, NEW YORK TIMES bestselling author of the Half Upon a Time and Story Thieves series
"A fantasy adventure brimming with action and anchored by familial love...The story begs a sequel and will draw fans of A Wrinkle in Time."--Booklist
"This title will appeal to readers who enjoy fantasy, subterfuge, and adventure....Reminiscent of A Wrinkle in Time."--School Library Connection

Review Quote

"This title will appeal to readers who enjoy fantasy, subterfuge, and adventure....Reminiscent of A Wrinkle in Time ."

Excerpt from Book

The Hotel Between 1 Here, There, and Everywhere I''m going to die in this stupid locker. I stare at the strips of light in the door, kicking myself for getting stuck, again. And on the last day before winter break. When everyone comes back from the holidays they''re going to be surprised to find a shriveled-up mummy with a bag of Skittles in his pocket encased in this locker-coffin. This seemed like a perfectly good hiding spot when we started this fateful game of sardines, but I''ve waited over an hour for the other teachers'' kids to find me, and I''m the only fish in the can. It''s over. I''m through. I throw my head back against the interior of the locker, tracing the page displaying my pencil sketch of a tree with a cramped, crooked finger. I can almost hear the leaves rustling, as they have been lately in my dreams. It''s the same tree that''s on the wooden coin hanging from my neck. Dad''s coin. It might not be able to save me from the clutches of evil combination locks, but I feel better wearing the one thing Dad left me before he vanished. As long as I have it, I have hope I''m not going to vanish too. Footsteps. Some angelic soul is coming down the empty Social Studies hall to free me from this death trap of my own making. "Hello?" My dry voice cracks. The footsteps pause. I can''t see much through the vents, but I imagine this heavenly hero gliding down the hall with shimmering wings and a staff of love. "Cameron?" a familiar voice says. It''s Oma--my grandmother. Thank all her weird dreamcatcher charms it''s not some stranger. "Please get me out of here." She crouches so I can see her through the vents. No wings, no staves . . . just Oma, who''s been both mom and dad to me and my twin sister our whole lives. "How long have you been in there?" she asks in her long Texas drawl. An eternity. "I don''t know," I say, not wanting to be dramatic. "Can you get me out?" "Cammy . . . ," she says--the most awfully cutesy nickname in all creation--, "I think there''s a latch inside." Of course there is. I feel around and find the metal release. The door opens like magic. I stumble out on tingly legs and lean into her. It''s almost a hug, but I play it off. I''ll be thirteen next year . . . too old to be hugging my Oma in the Social Studies hall. "I''m sorry," I tell her, about nothing in particular. "Are you okay?" She''s dressed in her typical flower-print blouse and khakis. I nod. I really . . . really don''t want to talk about how, once again, the other kids abandoned me and our game. "I''m going to have to stay at school a while longer," she tells me. "Just a bit more work today." That''s a lie. Oma''s a sub--she hasn''t taught full-time since Dad disappeared, so there''s no reason for her to stay at school longer than everyone else. And the look she gives me sets off every nuclear alarm in my head. She was supposed to talk with my sister''s doctor today. Something must be wrong--again. "Why don''t you head home and make your sister dinner?" she says, giving me a droopy-eyed smile. "I''ll be late." * * * On the walk home, I stop at 7-Eleven for an orange Creamsicle pop. Something about choosing a brain freeze in December makes me feel like I''m in control. My sister, Cass, makes fun of me for it. "No one eats Popsicles in the winter," she says every time. But she''s wrong. Just like she''s wrong about Dad. He didn''t abandon us. It''s like Oma always says: Someone stole him away. I finger the painted circle of wood hanging from my neck. My coin matches my sister''s in every aspect except one--mine is gold, and shimmers a little when it catches the light, while Cass''s is a dull, gray wood. Her coin belonged to Mom. Oma says hers is gray because Mom died. The only logical assumption is that, since mine is still shiny, Dad''s still alive out there. Cass may not believe it, but I do. I''ll prove it to her one day, too. I''ll find Dad, bring him home, and everything''ll be the way it''s supposed to be. I just . . . don''t know how yet. I debate sitting at the picnic table outside the gas station to eat my Popsicle, but one of Cass''s morbid, educational TV shows said sitting too long can cause blood clots. On my list of Worst Ways to Die, "deep vein thrombosis" is one of the least exciting. Instead I continue to walk through the parking lot behind the 7-Eleven, scanning the shopping center between it and my neighborhood as I go. Something''s different about the shopping center today. It''s the only new building development in our area. The place was supposed to be a mini-strip mall, but not a single business has moved into the twenty or so glass storefronts during the whole two years since they finished. Now it''s a ghost town, complete with plastic bag tumbleweeds. But today, a new sign on one of the doors screams for my attention. Big, shiny letters with delicate, curly flourishes sparkle even under the cloudy sky. THE HOTEL BETWEEN HALFWAY BETWEEN HERE, THERE, AND EVERYWHERE. A giant, etched tree rises behind the letters, split down the middle with one half on each of the glass double doors. The sign is almost blinding, but at the same time so entrancing I can''t help but stare. Most businesses around here have cheap, off-kilter letter stickers or those plastic, sun-faded OPEN signs, but these letters glitter like New Year''s Eve confetti. The tree behind it looks so familiar, too. I know that tree. Same as the drawing posted inside my locker, and carved into our coin necklaces. I''ve run my fingers over that symbol so many times. And ever since I turned twelve, it''s been invading my dreams, too. Like its presence should mean something to me. I hurry to the door and peek through the glass, but can''t see anything inside. Must not be open yet. I cup a hand and press my face against the pane, and . . . Wham! The door slams into my nose. Glass and metal rattle, along with my ice-pop-frozen brain. I stumble back, dropping my Popsicle in the process, and crash to my butt on the sidewalk. It feels like my nose was shoved way back into my skull. I''m definitely going to have brain damage (number 43 on my Worst Ways to Die list). A man peeks around the door as I pinch the bridge of my nose to keep it from bleeding. I''m doing everything in my power not to cry, but holding back the tears is like building a Lego ship with no instructions. The tall man laughs and says something in another language, offering a hand to help me up. He''s bald, wearing a long robe with bright yellow and green shapes that look like those tangram puzzles in math class. My probably-crooked-now nose barely comes to his chest. Two more people step through the doors behind him: a bearded man in a linen suit, and a woman with a headscarf tied around her face. The woman sounds like she''s apologizing for Tangram Man almost knocking me out, but I can''t understand her. Linen Suit Man steps out into the parking lot and gazes upward to the Texas sky. I turn back to the door and catch a glimpse of . . . something unbelievable. Thick, velvety maroon carpet stretches deep into an open foyer and up a twisty staircase. Warm light shines from old Thomas Edison-style bulbs in intricate brass fixtures. A sparkly chandelier with long, dangly chains of crystals casts rainbows everywhere, flooding the enormous space with warm, smoky light. I can''t even see the ceiling, it''s so high. And I think I smell blueberries. Maybe the door knocked me out and I''m dreaming. But do dreams usually hurt like this? Before I can process it all, a fourth person pushes me with a "Step back, sir," and the spectacle inside disappears as he closes the door behind him. It''s a boy who looks to be around my age. His skin is light bronze, and he''s dressed like money. Black suit with wide lapels and a professional name tag that reads NICO. White gloves. Two long coattails drag at the backs of his knees, and his dark hair swooshes to one side, slick with gel. The only thing he''s wearing that doesn''t shine is a pair of black Converse sneakers. Nico leans against the door, watching me as he addresses the others in a language I don''t recognize. When he finishes, they all laugh. "Don''t worry," Nico says, this time in perfect English, "I told them you don''t work for the Hotel. Besides, we''re not looking for a tour guide today. Thanks, though." He winks. "What?" I''m totally lost. He says something else to the others and motions them back through the door. That warm, pie-in-the-oven glow reaches me again. I catch another whiff of blueberries, mixed with a woodburning stove and the sharp aroma of curry. I gaze back up at the crystal chandelier over the room, but something''s off about it. The chandelier has to be attached to a ceiling I can''t quite see, three floors up at least--maybe four. But the shopping center is a one-story building. I step in to take a closer look, but the boy in the coattails pushes me back. "Nuh-uh, kiddo." A smile creeps across his face. "That ain''t for you." "But--" "No vacancy at the Hotel tonight." "That''s a h

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