Page 15 of Fool Me Twice

Cane took the choice away from him by shrugging and putting his hands in his pockets, turning toward the warehouse.

“Okay,” he said, and Hart wanted to bristle as much as he wanted to thank him for not making him do something he wasn’t sure he wanted to do. “Should we go inside?”

“That would be the best,” Fix said. “Let me just grab our bags.”

Cane waited for them closer to the rusted roller shutter door behind him, standing with his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on Hart. Hart did his best to ignore the predatory stare as he took his bag from Fix and double-checked that he had everything. It was procrastination at its finest. He was meticulous with his packing.

Eventually he had no more excuses, and he approached Cane for him to lead them into the warehouse.

Fix fell into step with Hart, nudging his shoulder and lifting his eyebrows in question.

Hart just shook his head and focused on the back of Cane’s head. He could do this. He absolutely could do this.

Chapter 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.

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