Page 10 of Icarus

Directly across from the bed there was a large landscape painting of haystacks at dusk. A Monet. It was one of the most beautiful paintings in the house.

Icarus rarely spent time watching his father reproduce pieces, but this one felt . . . crisp, like a winter morning before it truly got cold. When the dew gathers, wavering between frost and water, and the air smells like wood. Like metal.

Even the destruction of the forgery felt obscene: the layer of yellowed volatile lacquer to replicate the age, the dash of green crayon, the heat exposure, and resulting cracks. But, still, it was a masterpiece.

Icarus stood in front of the original, set into the wall in the center of a built-in bookcase, and took it in. The glare of his headlamp illuminated the real cracks, the real crayon, in a circle of yellow light.

Icarus pulled out a few volumes from the bookcase to stand on and delicately placed them on the floor. Then he climbed up to face the masterpiece.

Ike

He lowered the Monet to the ground and unfastened the backing from the frame. Now that he had them side by side, he could tell that the forgery was lighter in weight, the canvas it was painted on much softer and more delicate than the original cloth.

The painting his father had made was slightly too yellow, but without the other work next to it, it wouldn’t be easy to tell. This clearly was not a room that Mr. Black went into particularly often.

Icarus pinned the replacement painting to the old frame and folded a protective sheath of silk around the original Monet before placing it in the carrier on his back.

Then he hung the forgery where it belonged in the center of the wall. When Icarus bent down to pick up the books and replace them, the light of his headlamp landed on two feet.

Icarus jerked up with a gasp and whirled around.

He stumbled backward over the books, catching himself against the bookcase. His headlight spun crazily around the room as he faltered, eventually landing steady on the person in front of him.

Dressed in a slightly too-small blue linen pajama set, another boy stared back, very calm. He had bright red hair—mussed, as he’d obviously been asleep—and soft brown eyes. He was taller than Icarus and broader in the shoulders. But he wasn’t armed or standing like he was about to attack.

He looked resigned, but curious.

“How long have you been doing this?” he asked.

Brush

The sound of the boy’s voice—rough and low—was enough to break the spell of shock that pinned Icarus to the wall.

He tried to dart to the side, but the boy caught his arm quick and pushed him bodily up against the bookshelf. Icarus’s head banged against the middle of the fake Monet and he let out a terrible noise. So throaty and desperate he could hardly believe it came from him.

Icarus had never had someone this close, pressed along every inch of him, and it was more than he could take. His eyes rolled back as the heat of a palm squeezed his forearm. Strong thighs bracketed his, preventing his escape. Icarus’s knees felt like they were about to fail him.

“Who are you?” the boy demanded, but Icarus couldn’t answer even if he wanted to.

Up close, it was worse. There was breath on his face that he could feel even through the balaclava he wore, and the boy was so near that some of his hair was brushing the sliver of skin that showed around Icarus’s eyes.

The boy grabbed the edge of Icarus’s balaclava. With a thrum of fear, Icarus reached up to keep it down. But his assailant was quick and then Icarus was unmoored: naked and shaking in the circle of his own light.

The boy backed up, startled, but did not release Icarus’s arm.

“Angus,” he whispered, then shaking his head he tried again. “Too young. You must be the son.”

Icarus pushed the boy hard, grabbed the real Monet, and dashed for the door.

“Helios!” he heard the boy call from behind him. Far enough that Icarus knew he wasn’t being followed. But Icarus wasn’t foolish enough to stop running.

It didn’t keep him from hearing the rest.

“I’m Helios Black. You rude idiot.”

Blur

Icarus ran all the way home. His heart was pounding so fast that he couldn’t feel his legs. He slammed inside the front door, stumbling up the stairs to their apartment, breathless and raw, then stopped.