Page 60 of Kidnapping of a Myth

Eamon fell silent. Bel was pure of heart… and something else. Her purity was more profound than most. He’d known it the moment he drank from her that fateful night in New York City. He’d tasted it, but could she forgive a man with such darkness in his soul?

Bel grunted as she forced herself to a stand, and then on unsteady legs, she hobbled forward to collapse against his chest with a pained hiss. For a moment, she leaned against him as she caught her breath, and then she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Eamon Stone, I’ve always known who you are,” she whispered into his shirt. “I learned it in that first second of my attack, but you don’t scare me. Life without you does, though.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then don’t ask stupid questions.” She tilted her head up and kissed his jaw. “I’m not blind. I’m well aware of the devil I’ve invited in. Only in my story, he’s not the devil. He’s the hope I cling to because when life grows dark, he always comes for me. I know who you are, and I want you, darkness and all.”

“I love you, Isobel Emerson.” He lowered his lips to capture hers, and Bel smiled against his mouth. Sirens and agents swarmed around them, but she was all he could focus on. He felt the truth in her kiss, in the way her body melted against his. She wasn’t lying. She saw his ugliness and still accepted him, and the freedom of her acceptance was something Eamon had waited hundreds of years to experience.

Bel groaned against his mouth, pulling away with a grimace, and Eamon’s concern snapped to attention. “Help me sit,” she said. “I’m too sore to keep standing, but I need to stay. I need to understand. Why did Henry want to murder his wife? It was probably for the money, but how did he and Pann fit together? And why those traps? Why kill children at all? I can’t leave yet.”

“You don’t have to.” Eamon eased her to a seat. “But if you start to feel worse, tell me.”

“Deal.” She leaned her head against his shoulder as he settled beside her on the ambulance ledge. “The tattoo? It’s not something we can bring to the FBI, but I was right, wasn’t I? It’snot a normal tattoo, and I would bet money that it played a part in this case.”

“You’re right,” Eamon said, pride swelling in his chest. “The ink was mixed with Pixie Dust before it was embedded under his skin.”

“Pixie Dust?” Bel stared at him as if he’d lost it. “Like fairies?”

“Like the drug,” he answered.

“I haven’t heard of that. Is it new?”

“No, but it’s not man-made. Witches produce it, but it’s illegal, even in the supernatural circles. It’s incredibly powerful, yet so dangerous that the reigning coven leaders execute any witch caught making it.”

“If it’s so dangerous, why risk it?” Bel asked.

“Because of the high.” Eamon chuckled humorlessly. “It’s the best you’ve ever had. Human drugs and alcohol don’t affect supernaturals as severely as they do humans. But Pixie Dust? That knocks us on our backs. It’s addicting and all-consuming.”

“You’ve done it?” There was disappointment in her tone, and Eamon slipped a comforting arm around her shoulder.

“Not on purpose, and it was a long time ago. Prohibition, actually.”

Bel’s eyes widened. “We’ll circle back to that because I need to hear about life in the twenties, but go on.”

“Alcohol was prohibited, yet everyone was drunk, and a witch had spiked her moonshine. She was hoping the addictive Pixie Dust would force people to buy solely from her. I drank some at a party, and realizing how fatal a dose she unwittingly mixed, I dealt with her for the crime, but I was high for almost twenty-four hours. There’s nothing like it.”

“But the drug was fatal.”

“Not for me,” Eamon said. “The older my kind gets, the more invincible we grow, and the dosage wasn’t concentrated enough to kill me. In lower doses, Pixie Dust enhances a supernatural’spowers, but in humans, it gives them strength that’s unnatural for the mortal race. It latches on to the person’s inherent talents and intensifies them, making them nearly unstoppable while the drug is in their system. Prolonged exposure can also lead to insanity and eventually death, hence its illegal status.”

“Enhances their natural abilities…” Bel repeated, and Eamon could practically see her brain calculating through her focused eyes. “The Tinker… the traps. He’s an expert in death and the mechanical…Tick Tock, Tick Tock… clocks are mechanical.” She looked at him with excitement. “He found a way to maintain a constant high, which increased his engineering abilities. It’s how he built those traps by himself and how he escaped FBI custody, isn’t it?”

“I believe so.”

“It’s also why he appeared insane,” she continued. “The prolonged use affected his brain, so while his mechanical skills were heightened to almost superhuman levels, his mind was cracking under the drug’s control. The elaborate traps, the alarmingly specific email algorithms, the escape from custody. Some assumed he had an accomplice. I guess in a way he did, since Henry was involved, but not how we expected. He did everything himself, didn’t he? And all because of the Pixie Dust.”

“I can guarantee you that the tattoo was not his sole fix,” Eamon said. “That laced ink helped keep his high constant, but he would’ve eventually become immune. He probably used often, which transformed him from a contract killer into a madman. His outfit in his original video to Wendy makes a lot more sense now. He needed a disguise, but much like his urges to turn a straightforward kidnapping into a game of cat and mouse, he became obsessed with the performance. It’s almost like he wanted to become the mechanical.”

“I can’t believe it.” Bel ran a hand through her hair. “It’s why his traps weren’t survivable. Borderline supernatural abilities designed them. If not for you…”

“But I was there, and that’s what matters.”

“Thank god.” She returned her head to his shoulder. “So I was right trying to destroy the tattoo?”

“You were, but it wouldn’t have worked,” Eamon said. “You would’ve had to cut the entire design off his arm and let him detox before the drug released its hold on him.”

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