Page 47 of Demon Loved
Now Brianna chuckled, a laugh that sounded natural enough. “Well, that’s true. Jerome does have a certain magic.”
A lot of magic, considering how many witch-folk lived there. However, her comment wasn’t anything that would have raised eyebrows among the civilian population, not when they used that word in plenty of situations that had nothing to do with real magic.
“It does,” he agreed, then surprised himself by adding, “And so do you.”
Her lips — those beautiful, kissable lips — pursed for a moment. “I don’t know about that. But…thank you.”
They left it there as they continued to drive through the canyon. Strangely, though, Belshegar thought they’d both come to an agreement…even if neither of them wanted to discuss the topic further.
The next morning, the guilt hadn’t abated much — especially since he and Brianna had kissed goodnight when he saw her to her door after an extended dinner at a place in Page Springs called Up the Creek — but he knew he had to do what he could to find the artifacts. Doing so was the only way to atone for the way he’d all but ignored his mission and instead had focused on spending as much time as possible with the woman he loved.
It was the first time the word “love” had passed through his mind. As much as he wanted to ignore it, or tell himself he was making this out to be much more than it was, he knew better. He loved Brianna McAllister.
And he had no idea what to do about it.
Today, luckily, he’d been granted something of a reprieve, just because she’d told him she would be busy for most of the day, first watching the gallery because the owner had business down in Phoenix, and then teaching several music lessons late in the afternoon. He didn’t want to think of being away from Brianna as a blessing or anything close to it, but he knew if she was safely occupied elsewhere and he wasn’t distracted by her presence, then he’d have a much better chance of locating the artifacts.
He had his usual breakfast of toast and fruit, accompanied by green tea, and then settled down to strategize. A few online searches had told him it wouldn’t be as easy as simply typing in Angela McAllister’s name and discovering her current address. A helpful comment in an online forum told him one could usually look up the owner of a property by typing in an address or parcel number, but he didn’t have that, obviously. No, he’d have to use the power of deduction.
It seemed clear enough to him that her home must be located somewhere on Paradise Lane. The street wasn’t all that large, and probably comprised twenty houses at most. He already knew it wasn’t the big yellow house with the green trim, since that one belonged to Levi and Hayley McAllister.
And although he hadn’t particularly noticed a pink house — probably because it was too small to be a viable home for the clan’s prima and her consort — he also knew to ignore that one when he saw it, since it belonged to Brianna’s older brother, Shane.
So that narrowed things down to roughly eighteen houses or so. Most likely, he could eliminate even more based purely on size, since there were only about five or six that appeared to be around the same square footage as Levi’s home.
Also, Brianna’s father had already seen him sketching on the street and appeared to have given him his blessing to continue with such activities — and, perhaps, had told his neighbors not to be alarmed by a stranger standing around in their neighborhood and drawing this house or that — so Belshegar had no reason to believe anyone who lived there would have much of a problem if he made a repeat appearance today.
That was why he picked up his sketchbook, slid two pencils into the spiral binding, and headed out of the hotel a little before eleven. He thought by that hour everyone should be up and about and off to work or school, so there would be less chance of him disturbing the residents.
Or being seen by them.
Sure enough, Paradise Lane appeared utterly deserted when he arrived. He paused in front of the yellow house that was Brianna’s childhood home and surveyed the rest of the houses on the street. The white one with the green shutters appeared to be the largest, but there was also a home several doors down that nearly rivaled it in size, and boasted a fancy turret with stained-glass windows as well.
Either of them seemed to be likely candidates to be the prima’s house, and Belshegar frowned, not sure which one he should try first.
Perhaps the one with the turret, if for no other reason than it seemed slightly more architecturally interesting than the other, and if he had to start somewhere, he might as well begin with the one that would be more of a challenge to draw.
He had only taken a few steps in that direction, however, when the door to the big white house opened and Levi McAllister emerged.
Belshegar froze. Every instinct was telling him to flee, even though he knew doing so would make him look much more guilty than standing his ground and acting as if he had every right to be there.
Besides, Levi had caught sight of him and lifted his hand in a wave, and Belshegar could do little else but wave back.
It’s fine, he told himself. Levi McAllister knows why you like to come up here and sketch. In fact, he practically gave you permission. You have nothing to worry about.
He wished he could tell that to the human heart beating within his breast, for it had sped up more than he would have liked.
By that point, Levi was only a few feet away, so Belshegar managed to smile at the other man as he approached.
“Back to sketching?” the man who wasn’t quite a man asked, and Belshegar nodded.
“It’s cooler today, so I thought it would be good to spend more time outdoors.”
At least that wasn’t a lie. The temperatures had remained much more comfortable, and he could practically sense the arrival of autumn now — not so surprising, considering that October was only a few days off.
“Yes, it sounds as if we’re going to have a run of good weather,” Levi agreed.
However, he didn’t follow up that comment with a casual “goodbye” or “have a nice day,” but instead remained standing there, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as if in speculation.
