Under the Surface by Diana Urban is an epic survival-thriller about four teens who get lost in the Paris catacombs for days—a gripping and propulsive story of love, danger, betrayal, and hope… even when all seems lost. Coming to shelves August 13!

Scroll down to read a sneak peek, and don’t forget to preorder your copy.

I never thought I’d die alone in the dark under the City of Light.
That’s what they call Paris. The City of Light. Makes sense when you think of the Eiffel Tower glinting in the sun or sparkling at night over the Seine. Or the vibrant paintings bedecking the palatial Louvre Museum. Or the glittering fashionistas strolling the ­Champs-​­Élysées. Or the dazzling boulevards with whitewashed buildings gleaming like pearls against the blue sky.
God, I’d kill for some of that light right now.
As I hurtle through the dark, cramped corridor deep underground, my phone’s flashlight makes elongated shadows bounce and bob across the craggy walls like a chaotic, ghostly dance, and I have to stoop to keep my skull from slamming into the low, jagged ceiling.
There’s no sign of the others.
Terror claws up my chest, and I try not to think of the crunching noises under my boots, try not to think how it’s only a matter of time until my phone runs out of power, until my mouth parches, my stomach shrivels, and my legs give out beneath me. Then there’ll be nothing to do but curl into a ball and wait for the darkness to become infinite.
Unless they get to me first.
No. That can’t happen. I won’t let it.
I turn a corner and slam my back against the wall, then toggle off my flashlight, plunging the corridor into pitch blackness. But hiding in the dark means my friends won’t find me, either. I breathe hard, feeling like I could choke on the dank, humid air, and a sob scrapes my throat. I’m screwed. Undeniably, irrevocably screwed. But I can’t spiral. Panicking got me into this mess to begin with.
Keeping my spirits up among six million corpses isn’t exactly an easy feat. That’s how many are entombed down here in the catacombs, their skeletal remains intricately arranged throughout this ancient labyrinth that stretches under the bustling streets of Paris like layers of rotted casserole squished under a decadent crust. My chest constricts, and it’s like I can feel the crushing weight of all six million dead.
And that number’s high enough, thank you very much.
A low, rasping growl echoes through the passageway. My heart jolts, and I clamp a shaking hand over my mouth to mask my heavy breathing.
But it’s too late.
They found me.
Maybe there are worse things than dying alone.