"Well," she says, a hint of uncharacteristic hesitation slipping a quaver into her voice, "The thing is... we eloped."

"Excuse me?"

"We got married."

"I know what eloped means... what did you say?"

"We went to a wedding chapel in Las Vegas. I'm Mrs. Temple now. I'm keeping my name, but-"

I shoot to my feet, wobble, and fall right on my b.u.t.t, all staring at her.

"You..."

"I know this is sudden. We're going to have a second, formal ceremony here at the house, invite some friends..."

"You married him? After a week?"

"I know what I'm doing. You should be happy. We're prepared to support your academic efforts. He helped me see the light-"

"I don't f.u.c.king care about that, Mom. I care about you. You've known this guy for a week and you got married?"

She looks at me and shrugs.

"It's my life. It may not last, but I hope it does. He makes me happy. As I said, we're going to have a ceremony... Let me get you some cranberry juice. You're going to need it."

Chapter 11: Apollo.

"You did what?"

Dad stares at me, his expression still as cold waters. "It was necessary. If I didn't she would have pulled back. She's a strange woman."

I can't believe this is happening. The last thing I was expecting was for Diana to be my stepsister.

"This changes everything. What are you going to do?"

He's sitting on the sofa in the living room, looking at me calmly as I pace in front of him, scrubbing my fingers through my hair. I feel like I've been stabbed in the gut a thousand times. I'm tearing myself apart from the inside out, and here he comes sauntering in, dropping his bags on the floor, and telling me he got married in Las Vegas to the mother of the girl that I...

Say it, Apollo. Just say it to yourself.

The girl I'm in love with.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't do this to her. I couldn't be her first lover, I couldn't defile her and run away like, well, a thief in the night. It's better this way, I'm sure of it. Better she suffers some small bitterness now than deal with really falling for me just before I destroy her life and disappear. I couldn't live with myself. I can't do this anymore.

"Do?" he says, interrupting my brooding. "I'm going to finish the job, and we're going to disappear."

"You can't!" I below, locking eyes on him.

"Did you do your job? Any progress on the layout of the museum? Any surprises?"

I was supposed to scout. I forgot all about it. I storm away, into the kitchen.

A moment later, he follows, and winces when he spots me pouring some rum into a tumbler. I pour way too much and gulp it halfway down, my eyes watering from the burn. I slam the gla.s.s on the counter so hard I swear it will break, but it holds. I look at him and snarl, a vicious edge in my voice.

"You can't do this. This is cruel. We could have found another way-"

"Not in time, and not cleanly. We can't botch this. How many times do I have to f.u.c.king dance around this? The price of this job is our lives. If we botch this, we're both dead."

"We?" I snap at him. The rum goes down hard, I cough, and the gla.s.s shatters in the sink. Already tipsy, I grab the other counter. "What the f.u.c.k is we? I don't remember signing up for a job for these people. Who the f.u.c.k are they that have you so f.u.c.king scared?"

His voice never changes. His face is as still as stone. Yet there is something in his voice I've never heard before. What I have taken for composure, isn't. He's so terrified it's frozen him, chilled him inside.

"Their proper name is in ancient Aramaic. It means 'the fangs', as in the fangs of the serpent."

"Oh f.u.c.k me," I moan.

I know that name.

Last year they launched some kind of failed terrorist attacks. Took a bunch of hostages at a school, tried to shoot up some malls. The authorities were tipped off and stopped it. There's rumors in the darker corners of the Internet that they were doing something else at the same time, something big that they didn't pull off. Like, atomic bomb big, or something like that. I can't believe what I'm hearing. My father is working for terrorists.

"What? What is this? I thought we stole from people who could afford to lose it, and worked for ourselves."

"Wake up," he says, and walks out of the kitchen.

"Don't you f.u.c.king walk away from me!" I bellow. "Not this time. I want answers. How did you get involved with these people?"

I follow him into the living room. He walks to the front window and looks out.

"They approached me six months ago when they became aware of certain debts."

"Debts? Debts? What debts?"

"It doesn't matter."

"The h.e.l.l it doesn't. What did you do?"

His shoulders. .h.i.tch. "I like to gamble. I enjoy the thrill."

"You lost money?"

"No. I won too much from the wrong people. That's when they found me. Offered to pay back what I won, in advance of the work. The necklace job was just a test. They wanted to see what we can do. They were satisfied."

"Dad, these people are murderers. Don't you watch TV? They were going to kill a bunch of women and children last year."

He turns to face me.

"When the offer is 'work for us and we'll pay your debts and save your life, or we'll kill you right now,'" the offer is tempting.

"I can't believe. There had to be another way..."

"They threatened you," he snaps, moving towards me, fists clenched. "They told me if I turned them down it would be you first, and they'd do it slowly, make sure I watched. Then they'd kill me. I could not allow that. I could not risk that. So I agreed. One job and we're done. This is it, I'm not doing this anymore. I'll take what I have in my holdings and we'll retire, well away from here."

I snort. "Oh my G.o.d. Haven't you ever seen a spy movie? They're not going to let us just walk away. We're all dead."

"Maybe. If we get too close to Carol and her daughter, they're dead, too."

"Is that a hint of concern I detect?"

"No. I don't have any feelings for this woman. I'll admit she's a devil in bed, but that's it. Museum curators must be like librarians."

"Gah," I bark, "I didn't need to hear that."

"I know you. I'm sure the girl is a good lay, and she is attractive, but she-"

"She's more than a good lay. I think I'm falling for her. I've never felt the way I do now. I've never felt like this before. She makes me want to stop. She makes me want to get out of this weird bubble I live in and be like a normal person. I don't want to be me anymore. I don't want to steal for a living. I don't want to spent the rest of my life having soulless s.e.x with strippers and escorts and accomplices to our crimes. I want out."

"That's what I want for you. That's all I want for you-"

'Then you should have left me alone!" I roar, grabbing his collar. "You should have left us alone. When my mother was dying, where were you? Where were you with your connections and your money and your f.u.c.king charms? You never even said goodbye to her. She was my world and you just came and took me."

He shoves his hands up between my arms, snaps my grip away. "That's right. If it wasn't for me you'd be in foster homes. If you were lucky you'd have been bounced from place to place, ended up in a program somewhere. If not you'd have ended up with some f.u.c.ks that keep twenty foster kids to get the support checks, or worse. I saved you when you had no one left."

"Did you love her? Did you love my mother?"

His face goes still.

"No. The condom broke. It was an accident."

"f.u.c.k you!" I bellow, and hurl myself at him.

I forget how good he is. When we spar, he's always just a little better than I am. Just as good as he needs for me to learn. Now he cuts loose, and I find myself rolling across the floor, unsure what even happened. I'm on my feet just as quick, as instinct takes over and the breakfall turns into a roll and I launch myself at him, but duck when he tries to grapple. Instead I swing past him and grab my bokken from beside the back door, and come swinging at him, roaring in rage, my lungs burning, molten fire coursing in my veins. I feel alive.

My father is a master thief and the biggest job he ever pulled was stealing my life. He's been turning me into him.

I swing, and I miss. He's too fast, and just like that his own practice sword is in his hand.

It's different this time. It's not practice. The forms come naturally, the wooden lathes feel like part of my arm, an extension of my being. A moment of elation slides through me as I realize he's retreating, using defensive forms to counter the flurry of blows raining at him from all directions. I'm going to beat him. It's like I have five swords, not one, and he can barely keep them at bay. He darts back, goes for the door, and I chase him outside and down the back steps, howling, pressing my advantage. He almost falls.

"Stop it," he shouts, winded. "You need to hear me out."

"You lied about her! You lied about Mom! You lie about everything!"

"Someone will hear you."

"I don't care."

Then he cuts loose. All at once I'm defending, pushed back, twisting and turning. I feel like I have lead weights on my shoulders, slowing me down as he glides through form after form, a momentary mistake away from cracking my skull.

"I didn't love her, but you are my son. I thought you would be better off without me. I thought you'd live a normal life. When she died I had no choice but to take you in, and what was I supposed to do?"

"Quit!" I roar back, and hurl myself at him again, renewing my attack.

We use the exact same form at the exact same time. The wooden blades cross with lethal intensity, and shatter together. I jump back, feeling a flying chunk of bamboo that nearly hit my eye carve a slice in my cheek. Dad stumbles back, throws away his shattered sword, and then I lunge at him, throwing mine away.

We go down together. No forms, no elegance, just brawling. He punches me square in the jaw and holds nothing back. I drive my fist into his stomach. Now we grapple. He's bigger, stronger than I am, but I'm twisty and lithe and I break his grips and slide loose, go for his neck, his leg.

Almost. Almost.

"Listen to me, G.o.d d.a.m.n it," he rasps in my ear as he tightens a sleeper hold around my throat. "We can do this all f.u.c.king night and we'll still come right back to the same problem."

d.a.m.n him.

d.a.m.n him to h.e.l.l.

He's right.

I go slack and he lets go. He turns away onto his back and leaves me lying on the gra.s.s.

"This isn't over."

"Fine. Put it aside for now. We have a job to do. This new museum wing opens in two weeks. We make our move then."

"What about the access codes?"

"I have the pa.s.scode. It's the encryption key we need. It doesn't matter if I have that now, it'll be rotated by the time we need to break in."

He doesn't even sound winded, d.a.m.n it.

"Wait," I pant, "How'd you get the code?"

"It's the daughter's birthday. Same code Carol uses for her luggage."

"Are you f.u.c.king kidding me?"

"No. It doesn't really matter what it is without the rotating key. It never hit me before. They rotate. Carol doesn't memorize a sixteen digit code every two weeks. She keeps it written somewhere for when she needs it to get into the d.a.m.ned vault."

"Why don't we just take the stupid thing when they bring it out?"

He shakes his head. "Too public, too messy. No, it needs to disappear. I mean to have the job done, have the merchandise delivered, and be out of the country within twelve hours."

"What do they even want a f.u.c.king painting for?"

"I don't know. Sell it? I don't care, as long as they give us a chance to slip away."