Page 24 of Demon Loved (The Witches of Mingus Mountain #5)

She didn’t seem put off by that modification to her plan, because she nodded and said, “That’s fine. If you want to go sightseeing, we can drive up Oak Creek Canyon and maybe do a little hiking. It’s really beautiful, and on a Monday, the trails shouldn’t be too crowded.”

Belshegar had no idea what Oak Creek Canyon even was, but if it involved more breathtaking scenery, then he was definitely on board with the idea.

He didn’t have any real hiking shoes, although he knew that wasn’t an impediment, not when he could conjure anything he might require for such an outing.

“What time?”

“Does two o’clock work?” she said. “Normally, I wouldn’t go for a hike that late in the day, but because the elevation is a little higher in the part of the canyon I want to visit and there are a lot of trees for shade, the heat shouldn’t be a problem.”

He hadn’t thought of that aspect of the situation — fluctuations in temperature didn’t affect him very much, even in his assumed human guise — but he certainly didn’t want Brianna to get overheated.

“Two o’clock sounds fine,” he replied. Surely that would give him enough time to do whatever he needed to do, and then he could go on this hike in the canyon without worrying whether he’d given his mission its due diligence that day.

“Then you can meet me at my apartment…unless you want me to pick you up?” she added, her voice now uncertain, as if she’d realized that making him walk down to her place right before they were going to head out on an extended hike might not have been the most considerate thing in the world.

Belshegar didn’t mind, though. Such a short walk certainly wouldn’t be taxing in the least, and it did seem rather foolish for her to drive up to the hotel, just to turn around so they could head back down the hill.

“No, there’s no reason for you to do that,” he said. “I don’t mind meeting you at your apartment. It’ll save us some time, if nothing else.”

“And gas,” she said, although she was smiling, and he guessed she wasn’t too worried about that.

Still, he hadn’t stopped to think about how much these excursions must be costing her.

True, she would have gone to Alcantara for her performance even if he hadn’t tagged along, but she certainly wouldn’t have gone to the Mesa Grille for dinner…

and he doubted she would have decided to head off to Oak Creek Canyon tomorrow if she hadn’t had someone she wanted to show it to for the first time.

And although he had very little knowledge of such things, he also had to assume that the gasoline was fairly expensive, just because it was a rarity these days and he doubted there were many places where she could even get it.

“I can chip in for gas,” he said, but she just smiled.

“It’s fine. I’m used to going all over, since my gigs can get pretty spread out. But thanks for the offer.”

Her tone was firm enough that he doubted there would be much point in attempting to press the issue. Instead, he told himself he could pay for dinner afterward, or perhaps only an afternoon snack if it turned out Bree didn’t want to extend their excursion into the evening.

“Then it sounds like we have a plan,” he said, and she nodded.

“I think we do.”

They hadn’t lingered too long at the Mesa Grille, and afterward, she drove him back to Jerome and dropped him off in the Grand Hotel’s parking lot.

“See you tomorrow at two,” she said, then drove off.

No real opportunity for a goodnight kiss — even if he’d been inclined to press the issue.

Oh, he’d wanted to kiss her…this human body he wore had been telling him how very much he wanted such a thing…

but if that moment ever came, he certainly didn’t intend to give in to those instincts while sitting in the front seat of an ancient Chevy Suburban.

So he’d gone to bed and done his best to sleep, and when he woke up the next morning, it was with a renewed resolve to achieve some progress on his search for the artifacts, if only to make him feel a little less guilty about sharing another afternoon with Brianna.

The problem was, he had no clear idea as to where he should look.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t sense the artifacts anymore — the low-frequency hum of their presence had continued the entire time he’d been in Jerome — but because he seemed unable to pinpoint where it was coming from, he had no clear idea what exactly he was supposed to do about it.

Well, as blocked as he might currently feel, he knew he wasn’t going to learn anything new by sitting in his hotel room and brooding about the situation.

Once again, he ordered room service — toast and fruit and tea, just like the day before — and showered and got dressed so he could venture out into Jerome to see what he could find.

It was cooler today, with a few large white clouds floating above the landscape and somehow making the sky seem even bluer.

Now it almost felt as if fall was on the way, even though only a few leaves on the trees around him had begun to turn, and he guessed it would still be some weeks before autumn was truly upon this part of the world.

Something in the cool, fresh breeze seemed to hearten him, however, and he wanted to believe that was a hopeful sign.

For some reason, he couldn’t stop thinking about the painting he and Brianna had hung in Helen Doyle’s house.

There hadn’t seemed to be anything exceptional about it — certainly, it hadn’t contained any magical qualities except the inherent skill with which it had been painted — but Belshegar still felt there was something significant about the artist who’d created it, even if a cursory online search hadn’t revealed anything particularly special about the man.

Well, often the best research was what could be performed in person.

The gallery where Brianna sometimes worked wasn’t the only one in Jerome.

Belshegar had noted that an artist’s co-op was located just up the street from West by Southwest, and he thought perhaps someone would be employed there who might be able to tell him a bit more about the mysterious Mr. Wilcox.

It was now well after ten o’clock, so there was no reason to believe the co-op wouldn’t be open.

Or perhaps not; Belshegar had been in the small former mining town for less than a week, but he’d already noticed that many of the shopkeepers here appeared to be rather lax about their schedules and showed up to work when they felt like it rather than adhering to the hours posted on their shop doors or in their windows.

But the door to the artist’s co-op stood open when he approached, probably to let in that fresh morning breeze. He allowed himself a moment of relief, then stepped inside.

The space was larger than it had looked from the outside, with high ceilings and white-painted walls to set off the art hung there.

Like so many of the other spaces he’d encountered in Jerome, it had many interesting angles and small rooms that didn’t seem to have much connection to one another.

In a way, Belshegar thought that was a good thing, since it allowed a visitor to be alone to immerse themselves in the art in front of them rather than being distracted by what was going on in other sections of the gallery.

An older woman with shocking bright blue hair had been setting out a collection of hammered brass and copper jewelry in the display case by the cash register when he came in. She looked up at once and smiled, her fuchsia lipstick a friendly contrast to her blue hair.

“Good morning,” she said pleasantly. “Are you looking for something in particular, or did you just want to wander?”

Belshegar had already noted that there seemed to be a plethora of interesting things to look at inside, whether it was the brightly painted pottery displayed on a cunning multi-level shelving unit or the colorful abstracts on the wall behind the pottery.

However, he was here on a mission, so he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted.

“I was wondering if you had any paintings by Connor Wilcox?”

At once, the woman’s face brightened. “Yes, a few. They’re over in the next room. Let me show you.”

She came out from behind the counter and led him to the space next to where they’d been standing, a larger room that appeared to be dedicated to oversized canvases.

“We only have three right now,” the woman continued. “He tends to have his paintings in quite a few different spaces, so it’s difficult to find a lot of them in any one place.”

“That’s all right,” Belshegar replied. “I’d heard about him and saw a couple of his pieces online, so I thought it would be good to view them in person.”

“There are a few more in West by Southwest just down the street,” said the clerk — or perhaps she was an artist as well, since this was a co-op and he’d read on the website for the shop that many of the artists took turns minding the store.

“And if you’re up for a drive, I know they just added some to Van Gogh’s Ear in Prescott. ”

“This should do for now,” Belshegar told her, which was only the truth.

The Connor Wilcox collection here might have been limited to just three of his works, but still, they were all impressive in their own right.

One was nearly six feet tall and showed towering red rocks peeking out from behind pine and oak and cottonwood trees, with a wide, rocky creek cutting through the foreground.

Another portrayed a dense pine forest, deep and dark, while yet another was similar to the one he’d helped Brianna hang at Helen Doyle’s house, a landscape that had a slow-moving river as its main subject, although in this one, the sky above was brooding and dark, perhaps hinting at a monsoon storm to come.

He’d experienced some of the monsoons during his visits with Elena in her childhood home in Las Vegas.

Those summer storms had fascinated him with the way they sometimes arose from the heat of the day and at other times descended in the middle of the night, bringing with them thunder and lightning and torrential downpours.

Although he was enjoying the warm, bright weather of the region at the tail end of September, he thought it would also have been interesting to be here earlier in the summer and see if the monsoons in northern Arizona were substantially different from the ones he’d experienced in New Mexico.

“What can you tell me about the artist?” he asked next.

Perhaps that was too bold a gambit, but the woman with the blue hair was clearly a civilian, and she obviously thought he was no more than an ordinary tourist. It didn’t seem too improbable that she might share the sort of information that Brianna would never divulge.

A smile that showed white teeth against the woman’s fuchsia lipstick. “He’s originally from Flagstaff — his family has been there for generations. Now he divides his time between Flagstaff and Jerome because his wife, Angela McAllister, is from here.”

Angela McAllister. Again, Belshegar wasn’t sure why a certain name would resonate so much within him, but somehow he knew she was just as significant as Connor.

Perhaps more.

Trying to make sure he sounded nothing more than idly curious, he said, “Is she an artist, too?”

“A silver artist.” The woman paused there and pointed toward a display case in the other room that held a collection of silver jewelry.

“She’s an excellent silversmith — got it from her father, I suppose, since he’s part Navajo and is also a jeweler.

We have some of her pieces here, but there are a lot more at McAllister Mercantile down the street, since her family has owned the store for generations. ”

Of course they had, because the McAllister clan had been in this place for decades…more than a hundred years, from what he’d been able to determine.

“I’ll have to take a look,” he said, adding, “My girlfriend loves silver jewelry.”

An utter lie. Or rather, while he’d noticed that Brianna McAllister only wore silver, it wasn’t as if she was his girlfriend or anything close to it.

Probably better not to attempt to quantify their relationship.

“I’m sure you’ll find something you like,” the woman said. Another pause, and she went on, “Are you interested in any of the paintings?”

They were all beautiful, and if Belshegar had possessed an earthly home, he probably would have bought one on the spot. The rendering of the canyon with the red rocks spoke to him particularly.

However, he didn’t see how he could transport it to the dwelling on his plane, and it wasn’t as if he would do the painting the disservice of propping it against a wall in his hotel room for a few days and then leaving it behind.

It deserved more respect than that.

“My living situation is a little fluid at the moment,” he replied. “But I’ll keep these in mind in case things change.”

A smile. “Let me get you a card, and I’ll write down the name of the painting just in case. Most of Connor’s pieces sell pretty quickly, though.”

Belshegar could see that. They were somehow masterful and casual at the same time, conveying an almost effortless combination of light and shadow, of brushstrokes that were strong without overwhelming a piece.

The woman went to fetch a card and wrote something down on it, then brought it back to him. “Here you go,” she said. “We’re open seven days a week, so drop by any time you like.”

He took the card and thanked her, then headed outside. A glance at the back of the card told him the name of the painting was “Oak Creek Reflections.”

The same Oak Creek he’d be visiting in a few hours?

It must be. He had a hard time believing there would be two of them in the same general location.

A coincidence, most likely. Still….

He slipped the card into his jeans pocket and made his way down the sidewalk.

Perhaps it would be too much to ask that someone might simply provide him with Angela and Connor’s address here in Jerome — he could tell the woman at the co-op had known and had withheld that vital piece of information — but he still knew much more than he had even ten minutes ago.

Sooner or later, he’d be able to track them down…and the artifacts as well.