Free Tales of the Otherworld by Kelley Armstrong Page A

address Kristof had given me. Yes, drove. In a city the size of L.A., you’d think public transit would be the way to go, but it’d taken me about two weeks to realize that if I wanted to work efficiently, I’d need a car. In this case, it was a good idea, because I’d hate to have footed the cab bill.
    The address was almost an hour outside L.A. And when I pulled into the parking lot, I had to double-, then triple-check it. And, even then, I was convinced I’d copied it down wrong.
    I was at an ice rink. Indoors, of course. There’s no ice in Southern California. When I circled the lot, though, I found Kristof’s car. When he’d said personal, I’d jumped to the conclusion he was on a date, but with Kristof, the more obvious answer would be that he was with his boys. If so, I’d need to be careful. They were too young to recognize me as a witch, I thought, but I couldn’t take chances. Kristof would expect discretion.
    So I went in the back door. It was locked, but a spell fixed that. Inside, I followed the blast of a whistle and the
skritch-skritch
of skates until I found the rink.
    If Kristof’s boys had been here, their ice time was over. A hockey game was in progress. I like hockey. Well, marginally more than I like other sports, which is not at all, so I suppose that’s not the most ringingendorsement. I’d never buy tickets to a game, but I could fathom the appeal more than I could with things like golf or tennis. Hockey combines skill, strategy, and good old-fashioned brute force. I could relate to that.
    I just started for the front when a crash rang out as a player deftly shoulder-checked another into the boards. A whistle blast, and the referee signaled and waved the player off the ice. As the tall, broad-shouldered offender skated away, I admired the rear view.
    He gracefully leapt over the boards into what I presumed was the penalty box. As he sat, he pulled off his helmet and shook out his blond hair. And I laughed.
    I suppose shock should have been the correct response. Kristof Nast, scion of the Nast Cabal, playing
hockey
? Six months ago, I would have presumed he had a twin brother. Now I just looked at him, sitting in the penalty box, and thought,
I should have guessed.
Skill, strategy, and good old-fashioned brute force. That fit Kristof to a tee.
    As I watched, he watched, too—gaze fixed on the doors at the far end of the arena. Looking for me. Frowning. Checking the clock. Waiting. Hoping.
    I saw that and I knew he hadn’t invited me here because it was a convenient place to meet. There was a reason he was playing hockey almost an hour from L.A. No one else knew about it. In bringing me here, he was throwing the door open as wide as it would go. This is me. This is the real me. This is the me no one else gets to see. You don’t do that with someone you consider just a friend.
    No. I had to be wrong. Kristof had never given me so much as a lingering glance. He just needed someone in his life who didn’t expect him to play the role he’d been born to. That’s all I was.
    I stayed at that far end of the ice, watching him as he watched for me. When his penalty ended, he leapt out of the box and back into the game, playing with that same ferocity he showed in business. The same, yet different, too. Here he could pull the punches himself, and as I watched him skating around, blue eyes glowing behind his mask, I knew he loved that. The chance to get in the game, not just call the shots from the sidelines.
    The game ended a few minutes after he left the penalty box. Then he finally saw me.
    As the others streamed from the ice, he skated over to where I stoodby the boards. At the last moment he sheared off to send a wave of shaved ice my way. I laughed and jumped back.
    “Just get here?” he said as he hit the boards.
    “Nope.”
    “Snuck in the back, huh? I should have guessed. So, surprised?”
    “Pfft. Kristof Nast likes playing games where he gets to throw his weight around. Big shock