4. Hart

He followed behind Cane and Fix as Cane led them toward the shuttered entrance to the warehouse. The sun was fighting its way through the dusty fog and Cane's shadow licked at Hart's feet, making his brain imagine long fingers wrapping around his ankles. He stepped aside as if even that phantom touch from Cane was too much.

He shook his head and focused his attention elsewhere, reminding himself desperately that he was there to do his job, and the sooner he got it done, the sooner he could go home.

The building outside looked about as drab as most things in Slatehollow did. Gray, with chipped corners and windows at the very top of the tall walls glued shut with dirt and barely letting any light in.

Fix was chatting with Cane like they were long-lost friends, as he did with basically everyone he met. Hart knew he was probably asking a lot of questions about the events that had made Cane reach out to the cursebreakers, but he couldn't make himself get closer and listen in.

They crossed the parking lot and waited for the large metal door to creak open at the press of a small button held in Cane's hand. Once it was open halfway, Cane stopped it, motioning for them to duck under and enter. Hart made sure not to touch anything as he maneuvered his way under the slab of metal, finding himself in a long, empty corridor.

The walls were the same drab gray as the outside of the building, but unlike the outside, they looked smooth, newly painted, and clean.

"This way." Cane headed down the corridor, leather boots echoing in the empty space, and the rumble of his voice sending a tingle down Hart's spine. It was getting to him even more in the confined space.

Hart went to put his hands in his pockets, but that felt unprofessional. Crossing them over his chest was defensive and closed off and he didn't want to give that impression even if that was exactly how he felt.

He opted to keep his arms as close to his body as he could, palms glued to his thighs as he walked, looking behind himself at the closing metal door. The final clang made something uncomfortable settle in the pit of his stomach. Like his only escape route had been taken from him. He hated knowing he wasn't in control anymore.

He turned back around, seeing Cane and Fix were stopping at the end of the corridor in the light coming from the next room over. He walked closer, sticking to Fix's side as he took a look over his shoulder.

"This is it." Cane motioned toward the huge expanse of space in front of them. "Where the magic happens."

"Would we call this magic?" Hart asked as they walked into the main space, looking around it with wide eyes.

The center of the room held a large boxing ring on an elevated platform. There was a huge metal cage suspended in the air above it, ready to be placed over the fighters for cage fights. Hart shuddered at the sight of it.

The next level around the ring had seating spots, with the ones closest to the ring being plain, bleacher-style seats, and tables with seats around them on the next level of the large space. The highest level held glass-walled private booths clearly intended for the richest spectators of the…sport. If that was what you wanted to call the mindless barbarism. There were three bars spaced out on the lowest level, and two on the middle one.

"Booths get private catering options, or they can have servers bring them whatever they want from the bar," Cane explained, and Hart realized the man was genuinely proud of the place.

He looked around with an expression parents usually held for their offspring—proud and content and just slightly worried about their safety. His chest puffed out slightly, and he leaned forward on the balls of his feet as if trying to merge himself with the space in front of him.

Hart didn't want to tell him his child needed a thorough cleaning. That the missing barstool among six others at the bottom bar made him crazy to look at. That his fingers itched to make up a safety notice and pin a copy to every surface.

"So what gives you the impression that you or your…establishment are cursed?" Hart asked, trying to regain some semblance of control.

Cane turned to him, eyebrow quirked and a smile on his face that promised nothing good.

"Ears not working well?" Cane asked. "I just told Fix here all of that."

Hart blanched because he knew he was disengaged, but he'd convinced himself he'd covered it up as best as possible.

"Just trying to cover all available angles," he said, knowing the argument was as shaky as his confidence just then.

"How about you just check instead of me explaining it for the third time?" Cane suggested with a thinly veiled smile. "Time is money, and I can't open this place tonight unless this shit is taken care of. Unless you want to compensate me."

Hart clenched his jaw at the lewd suggestion in his tone. "This is part of the process that you hired us for. If you'd rather not participate, we'll happily leave."

Cane smirked. "That a no, sweetheart?"

Hart's heart jumped into his throat as his hands balled themselves into fists at his sides. He tried to calm down, knowing his entire face was hot and red. That name… He wasn't supposed to be hearing it. It wasn't supposed to be there, and it threw him off balance. He had to keep himself in check. He didn't want Fix to see it. To question it.

Hart was in control of himself.

Cane had fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket during the exchange, the yellow package crumpled and torn. He stuck one between his teeth and grinned, holding the package out. "Want one?"

His dark gaze swirled with promise, tempting him. Hart swallowed, unable to take his eyes off Cane's mouth once they landed there…

"He doesn't like smoking," Fix said, knocking Hart from his head.

Cane's eyebrows winged up, and he turned laughing eyes on Hart. "Is that so?"

"Yes," Hart said, wetting his dry mouth and clearing his throat before straightening his shoulders. "I don't smoke."

Cane huffed a chuckle and lit the cigarette, taking a deep, dirty pull and holding it for a few suspended seconds before blowing the smoke directly in Hart's direction. He didn't take his eyes off Hart once. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

Hart breathed in slyly, barely keeping his eyes from fluttering closed at the sick sense of satisfaction he got from the secondhand smoke. It was almost enough to get him to beg for one, but Fix's presence by his side kept his mouth glued shut and his feet planted firmly.

Cane tapped the ash off the tip and motioned with his head. "Let's continue this in my office."

He didn't wait for them to agree, just turned on his heel and walked off, expecting them to follow.

Hart let out a shaky breath, like his entire body had been released from a binding of some kind, and found Fix staring at him.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Of course." Hart straightened his lapels. "Shall we?"

He didn't wait for an answer either, following Cane's booted steps toward one of the private booths at the top to escape any awkward questioning.

This one was different from its counterparts. It had blacked-out glass, letting Cane see out but not letting anyone peer in. The door was reinforced metal with a huge DO NOT ENTER sign that looked like it had blood on it.

Cane had left it ajar.

Taking a deep breath, Hart covered his hand with his handkerchief and pushed it open, determined to get through this as fast as possible. He saw that Cane had made himself comfortable at his desk in a huge black wing chair. It was a strangely pristine piece in an otherwise haphazard room filled with boxes, dented filing cabinets, and safes. A single desk with a chunk missing from one of the legs was the only other piece in the room. It looked like something had splintered it.

Hart didn't have to guess what when a gun was sitting plainly next to Cane's booted feet on the desktop.

Cane was still smoking, lazily filling the room with a cloud of fog. His eyes flickered over to them as they crossed the threshold. "Get lost?"

Hart bit back the retort that sprang to his lips, feeling Fix come around from behind him. He busied himself tucking his handkerchief away instead, folding it into a perfect square again.

"Just admiring the place," Fix said easily, looking out through the two-way glass. "That's a nice view."

"It has its perks," Cane agreed, but his eyes weren't on Fix. They stayed on Hart, following him around the room as he continued to talk. "Bulletproof glass is expensive."

"Get shot at a lot?" Fix asked.

Cane shrugged, rubbing a hand over his stomach. "Comes with the territory."

"How lovely," Hart said, unable to hide his sarcasm.

Cane smiled. "You're welcome here anytime, sweetheart."

Hart huffed, turning his back on Cane and looking down at the ring, trying to get his bearings. He could feel those eyes boring into him still, the scent of smoke driving him insane.

"Right, so how about I—" Fix started, but Hart whipped around and shook his head.

"I'd like to go first," he said. "I have other obligations today, so if the curse isn't one of mine, I'd like to get to those in a timely manner."

"Well we wouldn't want to stop you from being timely," Cane said. "Do what you have to do."

Hart wanted to snap back again but swallowed the words down. His jaw ached from how tense he was as he walked over to the large gray desk and placed his leather bag on top of it.

"Have you got a mirror?" he asked, shoulders tensing when Cane snorted in response.

"Not in here," Cane said. "I'm hot enough that I don't need one."

Hart bristled at the words, but opened a padded compartment of his bag and pulled out a square mirror with a simple metal stand. He placed it on the desk in front of Cane and walked around the other side to where Cane was seated.

Cane caught his eye and winked, making Hart look down and bite his lip to stop himself from cursing at him. He couldn't wait to be out. Just one diagnostic procedure and he could leave. He just had to power through.

He pulled out a small speaker and connected it to his phone, looking for his favorite piece of music. He placed the speaker on the desk next to the mirror and played a soft tune as quietly as it would go while still being audible in the room. He took out a small essential oil diffuser and a few vials of his preferred oils, like bergamot and sandalwood. They usually helped get his clients where he needed them to be to diagnose them. Finally, he turned to Fix and motioned toward the light switch on the wall next to him.

Fix nodded and flicked the switch, drenching the small office in purplish gray light. It was just enough for Cane to be able to see himself in the mirror, but dark enough to stop everything else in the room from distracting him.

"Care to explain what's happening?" Cane asked, tensing up now that things were straying outside the realm of his knowledge.

Hart nodded as he worked to set everything up.

"My diagnostic procedure looks slightly like hypnosis," he said, pouring a few drops of each oil into the diffuser before turning it on. "Bergamot and sandalwood scents help relax clients and open their minds to see things their eyes wouldn't usually be able to see. The music is there to put you at ease and let your mind drift away from thinking of everyday issues."

He took a deep breath and forced himself to walk around the desk. He stood behind Cane's chair and reached out to position him so he was fully facing himself in the mirror. Cane's shoulders felt hot and hard under his hands. Hart frowned over the fact that his hands were shaking slightly and he balled them into fists the moment he had Cane where he needed him.

"I don't think I like being manhandled," Cane said casually, not making any attempt to change his position.

"You will be looking at yourself in the mirror," Hart said, ignoring the commentary. "You will listen to my voice and allow yourself to see things in and around you that aren't really there in this plane of existence."

"Right," Cane said, taking it surprisingly seriously.

"If you want to close your eyes at first, that might help you get into the right headspace." Hart suggested what he always did, knowing how incredibly difficult it was for most people to get to the point where their minds would allow information to process on a different level than usual.

"You're the boss," Cane said with a smirk before closing his eyes and relaxing his shoulders.

Hart looked up and realized Fix had left them alone in the room, his large frame visible just to the left of the window.

It slammed into Hart all at once. He was alone in an enclosed space with someone he truly didn't want to even be close to. He could smell his woodsy, smoky scent and feel the expansion of his chest whenever Cane took a breath. Hart took a step back, putting some more space between them just so he could think clearly.

He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders, relaxing his posture and getting himself into the right headspace as well. He needed to lead this. He had to guide Cane to the answers he needed to find, and being so tightly wound wasn't going to help that.

"Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes," he said softly, getting his voice to the correct pitch. Deep, audible over the music but not overpowering it. Floating on the gentle, repetitive rhythm of it.

"You will listen to my voice," he said. "It'll guide you to look inside. To search for answers we need."

Cane looked focused. His brows were relaxed, but Hart could see movement behind his closed lids. Rapid and fleeting.

"I want you to take a slow, deep breath. As deep as it will go. As deep as your lungs and your ribcage will allow you to expand them."

He heard the intake of breath starting, slow and measured as Cane's frame grew outward.

"I want you to think of what your body is doing right now," Hart said. "It's taking from the environment. Keeping exactly what it needs to function. I want you to think of the things your body needs and is getting from your surroundings."

He let his voice trail off while Cane deepened his breath.

"Pause when you can't fit any more air into your lungs and hold it there," Hart said, focusing on the pause in Cane's inhale, a shiver rushing through him at how well Cane was following his instructions. No resistance, no snark. "Think of all the things your body is taking in. The good and the bad. It all goes in. And it's up to you to filter. To pick and choose what stays. What you keep."

He allowed the lack of breathing to continue for a few seconds longer, until he knew Cane's brain would be going just slightly fuzzy around the edges. Just a tiny bit foggy.

"Keep those good things," he said finally, when Cane's skin took on a soft reddish hue and his chest began to tremble with exertion. "And then let your breath out slowly. Let it carry out all the bad things it took from around you."

He followed Cane as he exhaled as slowly as he could.

"Let everything bad flow out of you," Hart said as the rhythm of the music coming from the little speaker intensified, assisting in creating a heartbeat inside the room they were in. "Imagine it swirling around your head, like it's trying to get away before you can spot it."

He paused, letting the silence linger on the sound of drums and the scent of sandalwood. He let it fill the air, ring in their ears, block everything else happening around them. He let Cane sink into it.

"Now look into the mirror," he said finally, and Cane's eyes snapped open. He stared at himself intently, clutching the armrests of his chair until his knuckles turned white.

Those dark eyes looked focused and intent, exactly as they should, but there wasn't the speck of surprise in them that Hart had grown to expect. Just concentration and an obvious question.

"What am I supposed to be seeing?"

"If you have been cursed within my area of expertise, you should be seeing a cloud of energy around your head," Hart said. "It can vary in color, but most often it's dark and deep."

"All I see is my head," Cane said, and then the corner of his lips pulled up. "And you."

His voice went deeper at the words, eyes boring into Hart's through the mirror, and the primal drumming from the speaker made Hart's skin crawl. He felt trapped. And seen.

Hart recoiled and walked away until the desk was between them again. He stopped the music and turned the diffuser off. He hoped the tremble in his hands wasn't visible as he shoved his things into his bag.

"Are you leaving?" Cane asked, bracing his hands on the desk like he was ready to spring at him. "What does it mean?"

Hart zipped his bag up and lifted it onto his shoulder.

"It means if you are cursed, the curse isn't one of mine," Hart said, doing his best to keep his voice steady. "I'll call Fix in to run his own diagnostics. Have a nice day."

"Wait…" Cane called but Hart was already at the door and standing next to Fix.

"Not mine," he said when Fix looked up. "I'll wait for you in the truck."

"Hart…" Fix started, but Hart shook his head, power walking toward the hallway with only one thought on his mind—getting away.

"Tell him to open the door for me," he said over his shoulder, rushing down the stairs and into the hallway they'd come in from, relief flooding him when he heard the metallic scrape of the entrance opening for him.

He rushed out, across the lot, and to Fix's truck, placing his bag on the hood and leaning both hands against it. He dropped his head between his shoulders and breathed in, the scent of smoke lingering in the fabric of his clothes. He held the breath as long as he could, allowing the tension to crawl slowly away, letting his limbs unlock and unclench.

Relief was all he felt.

Safety in the knowledge that he wouldn't have to spend any more time with Cane. He wouldn't be rattling his world.

Fix could handle whatever was happening. He could help.

Hart was happy Cane would get the help he needed. He was just happier it didn't have to come from him.

"It's not mine either."

Hart turned on his heel, finding Fix standing in front of him, his backpack slung over his shoulder.

"What?" he asked.

Fix shrugged. "Not mine."

"So he's not cursed?" Hart asked, frowning.

Fix walked over, unlocking the truck and throwing his bag back in. "I doubt it. He runs an unstable business. Feathers are bound to be ruffled."

"I guess," Hart said, getting in the truck with Fix and putting his seat belt on.

"Let's grab the cases Taylor was harping on about this morning," Fix said. "Might improve her mood."

"Something pink and sparkly would probably work even better," Hart said, but it was by rote, his mind a million miles away.

Fix chuckled, not noticing. "I did see a stand selling artisan pocketknives."

"That sounds perfect," Hart murmured as they turned the truck around.

All's well that ends well, Hart thought, the soft music from Fix's radio battling the pit in his stomach as the view of Cane's warehouse shrank in the side mirror.