Page 41 of Demon Loved (The Witches of Mingus Mountain #5)

It had been a little weird to have Belshegar sleeping on her couch — but not so weird that she hadn’t basically passed out the minute her head hit the pillow and then slept soundly for the next nine hours.

She guessed he hadn’t been asleep that whole time, because when she finally wandered out to the living room a little after eight, he was awake and dressed, a cup of tea steaming faintly on the coffee table while he seemed absorbed in the beautiful illustrated edition of The Hobbit her parents had given her for her tenth birthday.

Since she’d guessed he might have woken up before she did, she’d thrown a light robe over her tank top and yoga pants, and also paused to put on some tinted lip balm so she wouldn’t look quite so much like an extra from a zombie movie.

“Did you sleep okay?” she asked, and immediately he slid the green ribbon attached to the binding over the page so he wouldn’t lose his place, then closed the book and set it down on the table.

“Very well, actually,” he replied. “But I was not in need of as much sleep as you were, so I woke up about an hour ago.”

Bree couldn’t help feeling a little guilty about that, even though she understood she’d needed her rest.

Especially since none of them knew what might be coming next.

“I’m glad you found the tea,” she said with a limp smile.

“I hope you didn’t mind that I went looking. Perhaps I should have waited for you to wake up.”

If it had been anyone else, she might have found herself a little irritated that he’d made himself free of her kitchen — and her bookshelf.

But this was Belshegar, and that meant he wasn’t anyone else. No, he was just himself, as amazing and remarkable as that was.

What could a being such as he see in someone as small and limited and mortal as herself?

“No, it’s fine,” she said quickly. “I wouldn’t expect you to sit here and just stare at the wall while I was off snoring.”

“You weren’t snoring,” he responded at once. “Or at least, I certainly didn’t hear anything.”

Bree supposed she should be somewhat relieved by that. “I know you already had tea,” she said, figuring it was time to move on to a more neutral topic. “But I can’t function without a cup of coffee to get me going. Do you want any?”

“No, the tea is enough for me. Thank you, though.”

His deep hazel eyes warmed as he looked at her, and she understood something in that moment. This was all new and strange, and she had absolutely no idea what the future might hold for them.

But despite everything — despite how they literally came from two different worlds — he loved her and would be there for her.

How could she ask for anything more than that?

It felt just a little anticlimactic to be back at the art gallery later that day, but she’d set this up with Chelle weeks earlier.

The gallery’s owner always took a week-long trip in late September or early October to visit other galleries and scout artists she might like to include in the collection at West by Southwest, and it was no one’s fault that her time away had managed to fall right in the middle of this mess with the Collector.

Of course, Bree didn’t mention any of her witchy woes to Chelle when her landlord slash part-time boss sent a quick text to make sure she’d still be able to cover as many hours as possible.

At least Chelle understood that she had her music lessons to teach and gigs to play, and didn’t expect her to be at the gallery eight hours a day.

And since irregular shop hours tended to be the rule rather than the exception in Jerome, no one was going to have too much of a problem with the place possibly being closed when they decided to stop by.

Belshegar was up at Connor and Angela’s house, meeting with them and the elders.

Brianna didn’t know exactly what they planned to do, but it sounded as if they intended to perform their ritual on the promontory where the clan had held its regular ceremonies honoring the four quarters of the year ever since the McAllisters first arrived in Jerome a hundred and fifty years earlier.

Because it had been the site of so many rituals over the decades, they seemed to think the spot would have its own energy, something extra they could draw on to make their shielding spell as powerful as possible.

She supposed that made some sense, even though she wouldn’t pretend to understand all the mechanisms involved in creating protective magic on such a large scale. Her father had assured her again that she’d know what to do when the time came, but she wasn’t nearly as certain as he.

But while she had a feeling that being involved in the actual nitty-gritty of creating such an enchantment would have felt like being thrust back into calculus class — she’d passed with a B-minus and sincerely hoped she’d never have to go through anything that mentally painful again — she also didn’t like the idea of being stuck here while everyone else went about much more important business.

However, bailing out on Chelle would have raised too many questions, which was why Bree found herself stuck at the gallery, watching as the hours and minutes inched past.

No busywork today, which was better in some ways and worse in others. While all that filing had been beyond tedious, it had given her something to focus on rather than watching the front door and hoping she’d get at least one or two patrons each hour to justify her being there.

Actually, there was a little more foot traffic than she’d expected — probably because it was another picture-perfect day, with puffy clouds dazzlingly white against sapphire skies and temperatures smack in that perfect zone between seventy-four and seventy-six — and she even sold a couple of pieces.

Prints, true, and not originals, but they were still signed and numbered and went for around three hundred bucks each.

A little after two, a woman by herself came in. Since she smiled at Brianna, it seemed to be a signal that she wouldn’t mind some help rather than exploring the place on her own.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” she asked.

Her new customer seemed to relax slightly. She looked like she was maybe in her late thirties, and although her clothes were simple enough — a loose linen shirt in a warm brick shade over slim jeans — the wide silver cuff on her wrist looked expensive, as did the sculpted silver hoops she wore.

And both those pieces were nothing compared to the band of glittering diamonds on her left hand.

“I hope so,” the woman said. “I wanted to get something for my husband for our anniversary — he’s off golfing right now, so I thought I’d drive up here and see what I could find.”

Buying art for other people could be tricky, and Bree hoped the woman had a good sense of her husband’s taste in such things.

“Does he like modern art, or is he more traditional?”

“Traditional,” the woman replied at once. “Not Old Masters kind of stuff, but he doesn’t have much use for art where he can’t recognize the subject of the painting.”

That helped. And since she’d already seen the woman’s gaze track across the space to one of Connor’s paintings on the opposite wall, a study of a big oak tree standing alone in a field, Bree thought she knew just where she wanted to direct her customer’s attention.

Still, she also figured she probably shouldn’t presume that the woman was willing to drop five figures on a painting for her husband, even if it was intended as an anniversary gift.

“Were you thinking of an original painting, or is a print more what you were looking for?” she inquired politely. There — that didn’t sound like too much of a hard sell.

“I’d be open to an original if it was the right one.

” The woman moved toward the painting of the oak tree.

Because the artist’s name and the price were prominently displayed on the card posted on the wall next to the piece, it would have been impossible for her to miss just how much it cost. Without batting an eye, she said, “This one is lovely. Do you ship? We live down in Tucson, and I don’t think this painting would fit in the trunk of our car. ”

Bree opened her mouth to respond that yes, they shipped anywhere in the world. But then she realized how cold it was in the gallery, how the temperature inside was beginning to feel positively arctic.

Had the mini-split that provided their climate control decided to go haywire at that exact minute?

The woman noticed it, too, and looked over at Brianna in bewilderment. “Is there something wrong with your air conditioning?”

“Feels like it,” she replied. “I’ll need to check on that.”

As the words left her lips, though, the lights flickered, and the wooden floor under her feet shuddered ever so slightly.

What the hell? The hillsides here were unstable, but still, it wasn’t as if Jerome got many earthquakes. Good thing, or even more buildings would have slid down the side of the mountain.

The temperature dropped further, and once again, the lights blinked.

“I think — I think I’m going to check out a gallery I saw in West Sedona instead,” the woman said, and all but ran outside, letting in a waft of warm air before the door closed behind her.

Realization flared in Brianna’s mind, sharp and frightening as a lightning strike.

It had gotten cold like this just before the Collector’s minion had attacked her and Belshegar the night before.

Adrenaline surged, and she reached for her phone, thinking she would call him or her father…hell, Angela and Connor…to come and help.

But even as that thought shot through her mind, the phone went flying across the room and into the hand of a man she knew hadn’t been standing there a moment earlier.

If she’d passed him on the street, she probably wouldn’t have given him a second glance. He was a little taller than average, with medium brown hair and brown eyes, and he wore a white button-up shirt and khakis.