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For the briefest moment, I think I catch Kayvon straighten at the use of the word ‘him.’ "Really? And who is this guy?"

There’s a flicker of jealousy in the way he says “guy,” and I realize, for all my possessiveness, I’ve never wondered how he feels about me.

"He was in charge of the dig; I had to beg him to bring me along, practically."

I feel his arm curl around me more in a surprisingly protective gesture. "And he's your friend?"

I sit on the knife's edge of the moment, feeling the way he nervously waits for my response. It's eerily familiar, the way he clings to me a mirror of how I clung to him in my apartment earlier. And eventually I let out a gusty, "Not in a thousand years. I wish I could have left him in the tomb. But he runs this work at NYU, so either you hitch your wagon or get left behind."

His expression softens, but his grip stays firm, like he’s trying to protect me from something beyond his understanding, gentle almost without realizing it. The moment presses on me, forcing out the question that’s lingered since he left the party.

"Hey, Kayvon, do you… like me?"

His gaze goes from distant to fixed on me as he pulls me in for a gentle kiss before pressing his forehead to mine. "Yeah, I think I really like you."

The gesture, his words, the entire moment fills me with warmth that spreads through every vein. "Then please, don’t ever run off like that again. If this really is ‘our fault’ and we’re doing this, we have to do it together."

His lips draw into a tight line, but then he nods, his forehead rubbing against mine. "Okay, together.”

Chapter eight

A Meeting of Minds

There was no magic keeping me from NYU, no secrets or traps or curses. In fact, the only thing keeping me away was me. I had practically been right next to what I needed the whole time. A thought I kept lamenting as Kayvon and I made the painfully short walk Sunday morning from Terry's apartment to the NYU Institute for the Study of the Ancient World. A single block. We didn't even leave Madison Ave.

No, the only thing that had kept me away was the same thing I imagine plagues so many professional relationships: a poor parting of ways. The kind of feeling that can repel someone better than the promise of the strongest curses.

I badge us into the building, a subtle reminder that I belong in this world even if I don't feel welcome the further I venture. We head up two floors, down a corridor lined with mosaic tiles and old offices. It’s strange how I know exactly where to go, how I always have, yet still tried to solve this another way. With every step, an unsettling aura builds, the kind I’d expect from an entity born of corruption or Druj.

Finally, I stop outside an office, his office, the office of Professor Anthony Belzoni. The door is shut and probably locked, because of course it is; it's a Sunday, why would he be in? I give Kayvon some side-eye as I hesitantly ask, "Are you sure we need to do this?"

"It's this, or we fight that thing again and hope we get lucky twice. And if it's had time to recover in a city with almost a hundred times the people of the one it first festered in, I doubt we'll get lucky again without some help."

I struggle to swallow in a dry throat, to will myself to knock, and then I feel a hand gently take mine, strength flowing into me as Kayvon says, "Together."

Even though I just tried the door, I knock again with my other hand. When no one answers, I blurt, "Oh well, we tried."

Kayvon smirks at that, then he kneels down next to the doorknob, and I raise my skeptical eyebrow. "What? You have magic for this too?"

He pulls a pouch from his jacket and takes out two small metal tools. "No, I just have hobbies."

I hear metallic clicks from the doorknob. Suddenly, the whole knob twists open and Kayvon falls backward, clearly surprised; he hadn’t meant for it to open like that. A ripple of dread passes between us as I realize he wasn’t the one who opened the door. I look up to see a tall, handsome Italian man, dark stubble framing the brightest white teeth. He’s the kind of professor coeds swoon over, the exact type Carol warned me about with Kayvon. But in my gut, I know Kayvon is everything this man is not.

"What are you doing?" he asks, looking at Kayvon on the ground.

"I'm with maintenance?" Kayvon says, clearly at a loss.

"He's with me," I say, with all the confidence I can muster. "We're here for the dig notes."

Anthony's gaze finds me, and his whole demeanor changes from a concerned citizen ready to call security to a sly colleague ready to correct my every assertion. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Listen, Tony, we aren't here to play games. I need you to listen, or else the whole city is going to be in some serious shit."

He frowns at that and then looks up and down the hall. There's another moment where I expect him to tell us off, but instead I see something harden on his face. "Whatever this is, keep your voice down and come inside before I change my mind."

My skepticism grows, but I try not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I follow Kayvon in, shutting the door behind us, and stop short at the sight of Anthony’s office. Even the most popular professors at New York universities only get cramped offices—and his is no exception—but every surface is buried in printouts and open books about Egyptian dig sites and hieroglyphs. The only thing that looks like it's from this century is his open laptop, its screen filled with photos of glyphs and details from our dig.

"What is all this?" I mutter.