Blood

Blood on the Ice

I didn't start that night. Coach wanted to let the second string get more experience, so we were down by three by the beginning of the third period.

Coach didn't look worried. He just looked at me. I nodded. And I got two goals right away.

It's not that I'm big. I'm damn strong 'for a girl' whatever that means. But I'm not as heavy as the boys. What I am is fast, smart, and determined. Some people call it mean. I usually pick out the weakest skater right away, and then I knock him over. Clean. No whistle. I just go through him and take on the goalie one on one. If my fake works, I bury the puck in the net. If it doesn't, I bury the puck in his solar plexus. Next time I shoot he flinches, and I get my goal.

This time, the chanting started right away: "Get the girl! Get the girl!" and it got louder with each goal. I won the faceoff after my second goal but as soon as I started down the ice, two really big defenders took me out. The team brought along some football players to use on me I guess. Anyway, one swung his stick at my ankles while the other rammed his hockey glove into my face. I went down but sprang back up losing my gloves in the process. I don't usually lose my cool but this time I wanted blood. I think it was the chanting. I was getting sick of it. I took the first one down in two punches and then I landed a good one on the second one's nose. Blood sprayed everywhere. I even tasted it on my lips.

I'd already won the fight. And earned a penalty. It was time to stop. But they were chanting even louder and I completely lost my head and kicked the bleeding defenseman in the back of his knees. As he went down I spun and caught another with a punch to the neck. He went down, too. Then I set to work on the rest of their team. They'd all rushed to jump me, which meant they were all within reach. Coach and the ref had to pull me off the last one. Wouldn't you know a photographer from the local paper was there that night, damn!

The thing is, I think it was the blood. Not seeing it so much as the smell. And, if I'm completely honest with myself, the taste. I've been having nightmares about it ever since.

But how in the world had Great Uncle Fedora seen me in the local paper? He definitely wasn't from around here. "Where do you live?" I demanded. He was sitting at the kitchen table like it was his, popping the cap off one of my dad's old beers (you'd think Mom would've tossed them but she never cleans the fridge). "You're obviously not from around here," I pointed out.

He laughed. Again. I'm really not that funny.

"And what the hell did you mean about transitioning to another species?" I demanded. "Is that your idea of a joke?"

He swung one of the kitchen chairs to the side and stuck his feet up on it. His boots were polished leather, very black. "No," he said. And then he took a slow drink from the bottle of beer.

"Are you going to explain?" I demanded.

"I take it," he said, "that your parents haven't told you anything. Awkward."

"Does my mom know you're here?" Although I wasn't going to get into it with this weirdo, My dad wasn't around. I hadn't heard from him after their big fight last month. Not once.

"I don't know your father," he said, studying me as if he could sense my stream of thought. "I visited your mother when she was your age, but she was inadequately responsive to my assistance, so I left."

"At least you go away when you're not wanted," I said. "That's something."

"Has it ever occurred to you," he said, "that your name is, ah, unusual?"

"Of course. Who names a baby Falcon? But you've met my mom. She means well..." I shrugged.

He laughed.

"I don't see what's so funny," I snapped.

"I'm referencing your last name, not your first."

"Valvenandi? It's Italian. So what?"

"Latin, actually," he said. "And it is your mother's name."

"So? My parents weren't married when I was born so she used her own last name. They got married a year or two later." (And divorced without telling me? I thought to myself, wondering what the hell had happened.)

"Your mother may have more respect for our family lineage than she cares to admit. But about your name. It's a compound of two Ancient Latin words," he said, eyeing me. "Have you never hearded of the Valukar?"

"Heard. And no. Dead languages aren't my thing."

"Not yet," he said. "Want to know what Valukar means?" 

"No."

"It means vampire."

That surprised me. "They had those in Ancient Rome?" I asked. "Isn't that where Latin comes from?" But I was pretty sure he was making it up, although I had no idea why, other than being an obvious freak of nature.

"Oh yes," he said. "We did."

"They did." My best subject was English. It bothered me to hear him butcher it.

"As you say. Now, the second half of your family name comes from the word— wait, is that your mother?"