I feel it then—a pull—an ache, deep in my gut, dragging me to look at the road outside and the wide sky beyond. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck and somehow I recognise this feeling. It’s a signal. Someone, somewhere in the vast multiverse, has Fallen. And I will find them. Because that’s what I do now.

I live between two sets of parents and seven worlds.

Life is not a straight road. It’s a path through the woods.

And who am I?

I’m Ana Moon. Pathfinder.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wrote The Between thinking of my two children, Adam and Brune, and my niece, Amelia. Like children in so many modern families, they move almost endlessly between homes. I wanted a story that could invoke this mood of transience. Something with echoes of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. A feeling of always being elsewhere.

Thank you, as ever, my fearless agent, Stephanie Thwaites. None of these words would have found their way near a printed page without you.

Thank you, my brilliant editors, Ben Horslen and Beverly Horowitz, for never losing faith despite deadlines falling into parallel worlds. And thank you, Alexandra Hightower and Stephanie Barrett, who blithely turn hot messes into prose.

Thank you, my family. Mom and Dad for indulging so many story conversations. Mostly, thank you, Delphine, Adam and Brune, without whom this book would have been finished far sooner. And for being such beautiful muses.

I’m grateful to you all.

Excerpt from Stone Rider

Here for blood. Three dark Riders. In single file.

They ride with bursts of speed, angled back in their seats, arms shaking as they steer their wild machines. Three Riders on low-slung, otherworldly bykes that catch the sun and bristle. Dirt clings to their gold-mirrored sun visors and their gleaming riding suits. They muscle across a wind-hammered landscape, riding up the slope of a dark mountain.

A volcano.

The lead Rider reins in his posse with a raised right hand and they slide out behind him in a snarl of black dust. When the dust clears, they see what he sees.

In the valley lies the course. A steep affair with furrowed lanes, fierce turns and six massive jumps. Alone below, a Rider on a byke of pale silver leaps skyward. He turns his front wheel in midair, floats and then plunges down the far side of a tabletop.

It’s an impressive jump.

The lead Rider, above on the hill, acknowledges the feat with a smile. No one sees it. The smile is concealed behind his helmet visor.

It’s an hour after dawn. The sun is behind them, low against the black hills. Their shadows—lean and long—strike out down the slope, pointing the way.

“That’s him!” Wyatt exclaims, flicking up his visor. He’s the tall one, pale and thin. He looks at his companions and rocks back in the saddle of his black Shadow byke.