Blood Magik: A Cold Day in Hell (Book One)

Chapter 1: Priests Vs. Hounds!

The Anaheim Hell Hounds were a reputable opponent with several men nearly the size of Marty who were just as mean and twice as ugly. One such unfortunate monstrosity was named Jean-Claude Le'Duprie: a black French-Canadian mountain of muscle who'd played for more teams in the league than he had teeth left in his purple gums (which would be saying more if he wasn't missing so many). He was a brawler that didn't have much finesse on his skates but could really shoot the puck well if you set him up with a perfect pass.

The 3rd period face-off was back at center-ice. The Hounds had just scored, making it six goals to four in their favor. The crowd was sparse but proving themselves a part of the game by way of their encouraging cheers for the L.A. home squad. Marty was the Priests' face-off man while Le'Duprie rooted himself directly across from him, grinning toothlessly, chewing on his mouthguard, mocking Marty's "professional integrity."

Le'Duprie spit off to one side and blood and saliva splat on the ice beside them, his lip busted open from a competitive skirmish the two had gotten into late in the first period. Marty smiled back at the visible proof of his victory-tally, and Le'Duprie's cocky grin abruptly became a bit more businesslike than provocative.

"Alright, ladies, there's only two minutes left in this game." The referee decided to set the pace for the rest of the contest before putting the puck into play. "Let's try an' do this by the book. Either of you two assholes drops the gloves again, yer gettin' yerself a full game-misconduct. We clear?"

They didn't bother to answer. They both understood entirely – but that little intrusive fact wouldn't change their demeanor if things escalated and became heated. But on the other hand, Marty meant to win this game and wouldn't be able to do so while sitting in the penalty box.

He loosened his grip on his stick and placed his blade on the ice, focusing his attention toward the dot at the center of the face-off circle. Le'Duprie got his stick into position next, but never took his eyes off their real target: the logo dead-center in his opponent's chest.

When the whistle blew, and the puck dropped, Marty swept it between his legs to his defense, leaning forward with his head down to shield the play. But Le'Duprie ignored the puck entirely and thrust the shaft of his stick across the Priests logo on Marty's shirt instead, knocking him back flat on his giant and unsuspecting ass. The crowd unleashed a uniformed "Ooooo!!" afterward that hummed through the arena, sympathetic to the force of the blow.

Le'Duprie didn't bother gloating over his fallen adversary before he went straight for the defenseman with the puck, oafishly hacking across the already scarred ice. (If Finesse could complain, it'd have Elegant on speed-dial, bitching about the Hound's gross neglect of both.)

Marty – winded, hardly able to breathe through the fire in his lungs – found enough strength in his hunger for retribution to get up and skate for the offensive zone. The impact of his teammate being slammed against the boards behind him caught his ear, so he looked back to see who had control of the play. Boards swaying, crowd roaring, his defenseman was down, but so was Le'Duprie who had stumbled over the player he'd felled and greeted the ice with the side of his face; the ice wasn't surprised he'd said hello. (Neither was Finesse, if you'd ask Elegant.)

The puck was already headed up the rink when Marty's left winger escorted it into the Hell Hounds' zone. The winger cocked his stick, threatening to shoot, forcing the Hounds' defenseman to throw himself to the ice in a bold attempt to block the attack, but the Priests' forward held fast—

Lowering his stick, he slipped the puck behind him to a trailing Marty at the top of the zone, the Priests' captain cutting across the ice with unopposed authority, still pushing through the pain it caused him to breathe (nursing hot knives in his lungs only adding to his thirst for retribution). Jimmy, Marty's right winger, had skated ahead and "planted his pudgy ass" in front of the net just like his coach had said to and, in doing so, had an honest-to-God, "miserable shit's shot in Hell's" chance at being a viable threat. He was screening the goaltender's line-of-sight when the behind-the-back pass found the blade of Marty's stick. The Priest captain wound up, pausing to pick his target, and ferociously blasted one toward the net for the two feet of space between Jimmy's skates and the goal...