The memory shattered as my phone buzzed against the library table, vibrating with an urgency that matched the pounding of my heart. I grabbed it, grateful for the interruption, and saw Silas's name on the screen.

  "Madam. I have information."

  I was already shoving books into my bag, the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, my movements quick and mechanical as I packed. "Tell me."

  "The vehicle from the footage is registered to a Mr. Kaelen Vance. Address: 47 Skyline Drive, The Crestmore Towers, Penthouse." He paused, and I could hear the quiet click of a keyboard in the background. "I've done a preliminary background check. Mr. Vance is the founder and CEO of Vance Applied Biologics—a biotechnology firm specializing in what they call 'regenerative solutions.' Age, thirty-four. No criminal record. No public social media presence. He maintains a very low profile for someone of his wealth and position."

  Kaelen Vance.

  I whispered the name, testing it on my tongue. It tasted modern, sharp, anonymous. It held no echo of his true name—the one I had whispered against his skin under a different sky, the one that meant Guardian of the Threshold in a language that had died before Babylon rose. But it was a name. It was a key.

  "Anything else?" I asked, already heading for the door.

  "He's known in business circles as something of a recluse. Attends necessary functions, speaks when required, but otherwise keeps to himself. There are... rumours."

  "Rumours?"

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "Nothing substantiated. Whispers among the staff at various venues he's patronized. They say he sometimes seems distracted, as if listening to something no one else can hear. A few have mentioned seeing him startle at nothing, or go very still for no apparent reason." Silas paused. "One waiter at a charity gala reported that Mr. Vance spent the entire evening staring at a corner of the room where no one was standing. When asked if he was expecting someone, he reportedly said, 'She's always there. She just won't come closer.'"

  The words hit me like a physical blow. I had to stop walking, had to brace myself against the wall of the library corridor.

  "She?" I managed.

  "The waiter assumed he meant a woman, perhaps. But no one fitting the description was ever seen with Mr. Vance." Another pause. "Madam, is any of this significant?"

  "More than you know, Silas. More than you could possibly imagine."

  47 Skyline Drive was not a student apartment. The Crestmore Towers were a landmark, glass and steel spires that housed the city's wealthy and powerful. Penthouse. Of course. Even without his memory, some part of him always found its way to a position of authority, of isolation, of heights. He was always drawn to the tops of things—be they mountains or buildings.

  He was seeing me. In corners. In shadows. In the spaces between waking and dreaming.

  The curse was fraying.

  The rest of the week was an exercise in agonizing patience. I attended my classes, a specter in the lecture hall, my body present while my spirit was already flying across the city toward The Crestmore. I nodded when required, took notes automatically, answered questions with half my mind while the other half planned and calculated and hoped.

  I needed to approach this carefully. I couldn't just show up at his door. What would I say? Hello, I believe you're the reincarnation of my immortal lover, and you seem to remember me this time, which is against the rules of the curse that has defined my existence for millennia. Also, I've loved you for longer than your current civilization has existed. Coffee?

  No. I needed to observe first. To understand who Kaelen Vance had become in this life, what shape his soul had taken in this incarnation. Only then could I plan my approach.