Page 8 of Icarus

Aspen was wearing her usual camo jacket and cargo pants. She smelled a bit musty, but for once Icarus didn’t mind. He was sure he still smelled like the outdoors himself.

“Where were you yesterday?” Icarus asked quietly.

Aspen shrugged and stared resolutely at her notebook. “Migraine.”

“You didn’t miss much. We’re on linear momentum and collisions now, but we barely started the chapter before class ended,” Icarus said.

Aspen nodded. She combed her fingers through her hair and began absent-mindedly twisting the ends. Icarus watched her. He wondered whether Celestina, Julian, and Luca felt about him the way he felt about Aspen: a mixture of curiosity and pity.

Icarus knew that if he didn’t talk to Aspen, no one else would.

More than that, it wasn’t a mystery as to why.

Aspen gave off very intense “stay away from me” vibes, in a way that Icarus sincerely hoped he didn’t. But that was also a thing they had in common. Aspen didn’t know why Icarus kept to himself outside of school, but she did understand both that it was important and that it wasn’t exactly what Icarus really wanted. Part of the reason Icarus liked Aspen was because it felt good that someone noticed this part of him. It was as close to knowing his secret as someone could get.

When the bell rang, Aspen stood up and faced Icarus directly.

“Some people saw you get out of Celestina’s truck with her,” she said bluntly. “You should get a handle on that unless you want attention from people like her.”

Icarus nodded and Aspen left.

Humdrum

He walked the mile with Luca and sat through the rest of the day without any issue, but still he felt anxiety creep under his skin.

Tonight was the first night of this multi-heist. He had two more before the week was done.

It went like this:

Mr. Black rarely moved his works unless he was selling them or he was adding something new to his collection.

So, Icarus would break in to take pictures. He would bring these images home and his father would study them. Angus would research their sale history and validate their origins. Mr. Black didn’t have many fakes in his home aside from theirs, but he wasn’t an infallible collector and a few slipped under even his watchful eye. Angus didn’t make those kinds of mistakes. If it wasn’t real, it remained untouched.

Then, his father would begin the reproduction. If it was a painting, there was print work involved and hideously expensive historical paints. If it was a sculpture, he would source marble, wood, plaster, gold, whatever was necessary. Depending on the piece, it could take months to complete a replica and cost thousands in supplies.

Finally, location of the work was vital to understanding how quickly Icarus could get in and out with a piece, and what tools he might need to remove it. The larger the piece, the more elaborate the break-in. Paintings were a swift in-and-out, one-and-done sort of job. Sculptures couldn’t be heavier than Icarus or Angus could carry one-handed and could only be delivered when Mr. Black was confirmed to be out of town.

Angus had placed cameras all around the Black residence, far enough down the street to not be associated with the property, but close enough that all entrances and exits were under twenty-four-hour surveillance. No one watched them during the day, but they were intensely useful for studying later for schedule and interference.

So.

Three break-ins were scheduled before the week was over because, according to Angus, Mr. Black was headed to New York.

Vessel

People rarely returned home within three hours of taking a flight. There was a danger zone within the first two hours: if they forgot something, they’d have enough time to turn back. Breaking in during the scheduled time of Mr. Black’s flight seemed good enough, but it wasn’t. On the off chance there was a cancellation, there was still enough time to return. Ten to twenty-four hours after a flight were also dangerous, because there was enough time to turn a three-day trip into a one-day trip and head back.

But three hours after take-off? If they were coming back home without leaving, they would already have arrived. If they’d actually left, they would still be in the sky.

It was a treat, and it happened maybe once or twice a year.

Which was why—three hours after Mr. Black’s flight out—Icarus could use the back door.

He placed the large bone-china urn on the ground and unlocked Mr. Black’s house with a key. The alarm began to beep, but the newest code had been in their possession for a year, easily taken from video through a window. He quickly turned it off.

The eerie feeling in the house still remained. A silence louder than noise.

Normally when Mr. Black was gone, when he knew the house was empty, Icarus could relax and make his way through the property with a regular amount of noise, but this time, in spite of his father’s reassurance, he just couldn’t.