Page 73 of Demon Loved
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.
But even as the phone landed in the stranger’s palm, something about his form seemed to shimmer. Not so much that she could see what lay underneath, but enough to tell her that the guise he wore wasn’t his real appearance, and instead was one he’d assumed specifically for this encounter with her.
“The Collector, I presume?” she asked, surprised that she sounded so calm.
Then again, since the stores on either side of her weren’t even open — they had strictly Friday through Sunday hours — who would have heard her if she screamed?
The man smiled. His teeth were even and white, which didn’t tell her very much. They seemed just as calculated as the rest of the disguise he wore.
