Page 17 of Icarus

Icarus stepped back. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, and had just turned to head out of the storage room when something caught his eye.

A gold that was too gold. Instead of leaving, like he knew he should, Icarus headed to the next aisle, to look closer.

It was a torque, about the size of his hands end to end, coated with dust. Icarus leaned in close, scrutinizing it. His heart started to race. To his delight, the metal bent at a hard press of his thumb.

Pre-Columbian gold was often solid. Closer to 24k than a significant number of ancient gold artifacts. This thing was so dusty it had to have been here for an extremely long time, and it wasn’t in the safe like a pile of gold should be. If it was solid, it would be worth about $24–$50K. But that was small change to a man like Stuart Black. There were dozens of pieces in his home worth ten times more.

He’d probably gotten this early enough that he wouldn’t have noticed if it was missing altogether. They never took without replacing as a rule. But if Icarus was never coming back after this, would that even matter?

Icarus bit his lip. He looked at the door nervously. They had never just taken something from here without replacing it.

But the opportunity was irresistible: $30K worth of gold that was easy to fence. More valuable to Icarus than all the Monets and Picassos in the world. Most of Mr. Black’s art was valuable because of its provenance, its historical significance, or the fame of its artist. Its appearance on a traditional market would always raise red flags, and Icarus wasn’t familiar enough with the black market for him to feel comfortable there. But gold . . . could be melted down into a block. It could be sold by the ounce regardless of its source. $30K was enough for a new start somewhere. With this torque, Icarus would have his chance to start fresh. To start comfortably, far from his crimes and his father and this house.

Icarus opened his calipers and snatched a ceramic teacup from a nearby shelf. He scratched the raw bottom of the cup against the torque and turned it over—stomach in his chest—and the streak left behind was gold. Yes!

He gingerly placed the teacup back in its place and turned back to the torque. If he filled the gaps of dust left behind with fuller’s earth, he’d be able to move it. This could be the last thing he ever stole—

The door to the storage room wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t silent. Icarus snatched his hand back from the torque. His head snapped up just in time to watch Helios enter the room.

Mr. Black’s son closed the door behind him.

Tine

Helios turned the lock, tugged the handle, then gazed placidly down the aisle.

Icarus was ready this time. He squared his shoulders. Then he pulled his baton from inside his coat and shook the length out with a threatening snap.

“Let me out.”

Helios tilted his head to the side, still assessing him, but said nothing.

Helios was wearing a soft black sweater and matching slacks, both of which fit him much better than the pajamas he was wearing when they met. They washed him out and made his red hair violently bright by comparison.

Icarus also noticed something else he’d missed: a thick silver cuff around Helios’s ankle over his dark socks.

Then, strangely, Helios sat down cross-legged in front of the door.

“Please talk quieter, or he’ll hear you,” Helios said, low and soft. “What are you taking this time?”

Icarus looked at the figurine reflexively, and then back at Helios. He immediately felt stupid for giving himself away like an amateur.

“I . . .”

“Come here, sit down with me,” Helios said. “I can’t hear you from that far away.”

Icarus’s eyes darted around the storage room ceiling, checking for cameras and potential exits. He glanced back at the vault.

“Even I don’t have the combination for that,” Helios whispered. “Can you stop being so stubborn?”

Icarus grit his teeth and tightened his grip on the baton. He strode across the room, twisting his wrist so the rod swished through the air with the promise of violence. But Helios just watched calmly.

Icarus came to a stop two feet in front of the other boy and looked down at him. Helios’s face was . . . like a statue come to life. Crests and shadows in alabaster and blue. Cow-eyed, dimple-chinned, long-lashed beauty. In spite of everything, for one horrible second, Icarus wished that he had time to paint him.

Icarus knew the figure he cut in black. He knew how he moved in uniform, but Helios stared up at him bravely, still. Without breaking eye contact, Icarus reached over Helios’s head and unlocked the door. Helios’s hand flew up to grab Icarus’s wrist, but he jerked away.

“Stop touching me.”

“Stop liking it,” Helios shot back immediately and Icarus saw red.