With the help of a magical key, Cam searches for his missing friend—who just might be the Hotel’s newest enemy—in this thrilling sequel to The Hotel Between , which New York Times bestselling author Lisa McMann calls a “rollicking magical adventure around the world.” Ever since Cam was named Concierge-in-Training, he’s been struggling to keep up with the pace of The Hotel Between. It doesn’t help that his missing friend Nico keeps unleashing pranks—you try finding fifty-two cats scattered all over the world. When a grand party goes horribly wrong, Cam learns his twin sister, Cass, may also be up to no good. Now Cam must set out to prevent Cass and Nico from endangering the Hotel and keep it from falling into the hands of Mr. Stripe, a horrible magician. If he fails, The Hotel Between could be lost. Forever. "Easley jumps right into this action-packed fantasy sequel...his larger-than-life characters—both good and evil—are full-blown; his multiple settings are imaginative; and the thickening plot leaves loose ends beckoning for further adventures." -- Booklist 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. The Key of Lost Things 1 Holy Cats! Doors don’t always lead where you think they will. When you live in a hotel full of enchanted doorways, you have to get used to your life being a little . . . weird. For instance, this morning I walked through a door in New York that took me directly into a bakery in Germany, where I picked up some spaetzle for a woman whose grandmother used to make it. Then I ferried a lovey-dovey couple from Venice, Italy, to Buñol, Spain, so that they could attend a festival where people throw tomatoes at one another. After that I took a door from South Africa to a pink-sanded beach in Indonesia, where I ate grilled bananas with dark chocolate syrup and worked on my most recent assignment: a list of awards to give my hotel staff at the end of the summer—things like Tidiest Bellhop, and Most Likely to Crack a Joke with Guests, or Most Creative Use of Binding. But the door before me now—the one I do not want to go through—leads to cats. Lots and lots of cats. And I’m the one who has to fix the situation. I swallow hard and ease open the door. “I came back from dinner, and there they were,” a guest with pouty lips tells me. Her neck drips with pearls, and her earrings cast rainbows against her brown skin. “Where could they have come from?” When I took this job, no one said anything about animal control. If they had, I’d have told them about the time when my aunt’s cat peed in my suitcase. And yet, here I am somewhere in South America on the twentieth floor of the Hotel, faced with more cats than I’ve ever seen in one place. They’re all over. Sharpening their claws on the king-size bed, drinking from the bronze fixture of the bathroom sink, climbing the complimentary bathrobes like pirates swinging from the rigging. One of the cats is licking at a playing card that’s stuck to its back with the magic glue that comes from a source of power everyone here calls “the binding.” All the cats have playing cards like this one attached to their fur, and those cards tell me exactly who sent these felines to terrorize the guests of The Hotel Between. Nico. He’s the one with all the tricks. It was his cards that first lured me into the Hotel seven months ago, and now he’s using them once again to send me a message. Only, I can’t quite figure out what the message is. A yellow-striped tabby with a three of hearts scurries past, followed by three others. I reach to grab the last one, but it wriggles free and races down the hall. Ugh. It’s hard enough being Concierge-in-Training without having to deal with Nico’s endless pranks. This isn’t the first—malfunctioning equipment, missing furniture, minor changes to the decorations—but this clue finally drives home who’s responsible. I ask the guest to step back into the hall and shut the door on the shrieking cat den, but not before the seven of spades squeezes past, tail whisking back and forth as the cat chases down the hall after the first escapees. That’s one more we’re going to have to track down, and quickly, preferably before the Maid Service finds out. “We’ll have your room cleaned up as soon as possible, madam,” I say, flattening the vest under my coat. A concierge must be dignified at all times, or so the Old Man keeps telling me. Of course, I’m anything but dignified. “Until we get your room in order, may I invite you to dine at our finest restaurant, the Four Corners? Complimentary, of course—order anything you like.” “Did you not hear me?” the wom