These Vengeful Hearts Read online

  Anyone can ask the Red Court for a favor...but every request comes at a cost. And once the deed is done, you’re forever in their debt.

  Whenever something scandalous happens at Heller High, the Red Court is the name on everyone’s lips. Its members—the most elite female students in the school—deal out social ruin and favors in equal measure, their true identities a secret known only to their ruthless leader: the Queen of Hearts.

  Sixteen-year-old Ember Williams has seen firsthand the damage the Red Court can do. Two years ago, they caused the accident that left her older sister paralyzed. Now, Ember is determined to hold them accountable...by taking the Red Court down from the inside.

  But crossing enemy lines will mean crossing moral boundaries, too—ones Ember may never be able to come back from. She always knew taking on the Red Court would come at a price, but will the cost of revenge be more than she’s willing to sacrifice?

  The Queen of Hearts

  sat alone on the top shelf

  of my locker.

  The coy smile on her face

  said she knew

  something I didn’t.

  If the rumors were to

  be believed, she did.

  A Queen of Hearts was

  the eponymous calling card

  of the Red Court’s leader,

  and its presence could

  mean only one thing:

  My invitation had finally come.

  These Vengeful Hearts

  Katherine Laurin

  Katherine Laurin lives in Colorado with her husband, two sons and tiny dog. When she’s not writing, Katherine enjoys reading, traveling, hiking and listening to true crime podcasts. These Vengeful Hearts is her first young adult novel.

  www.KatherineLaurin.com

  To Justin, Henry, and Asher.

  I’m so grateful for the light and joy each of you bring to my life.

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  OF THE WAYS I’d want to start a Monday, finding a car covered in blood was not one of them. The murmurs began just after first period, and fragments of muted conversation led me out to the Heller High parking lot. I was curious to see the spectacle drawing so much attention.

  The crush of students flowing out of the school buoyed me along in a tide of bodies. Between gaps in the crowd, I caught glimpses of the word smeared across the car’s windshield in bloodred relief.

  LIAR

  * * *

  Gray clouds hung low, casting the macabre tableau in watery light. The chill that slithered up my spine had nothing to do with the brisk October morning. I skirted a group of girls in front of me, recognizing familiar faces from my Geometry class, and found myself staring down at the thick crimson streaks. The letters looked nearly dry, and I couldn’t fight the morbid impulse to touch them. A distinct tackiness remained. Was it corn syrup or actual blood? I didn’t care to investigate further.

  There was no proof that the infamous secret organization made up of Heller High’s elite even existed, but this exhibition had all the makings of a Red Court takedown. Whispers from the ring of students surrounding the car reached me and I stepped backward, edging away from notice until I was part of the throng gathered to witness the scene. It didn’t seem like anyone was paying attention to plain old jeans-and-a-tee-every-day Ember Williams. Good.

  Other words, some so ugly I couldn’t look at them for more than a moment, marred the rest of the car’s windowed surfaces. My eyes skipped to a girl huddled beside a tree next to the parking lot. Tears mixed with mascara ran in inky rivulets down her cheeks. Two of her friends rallied around her, whispering softly.

  No amount of consolation was going to wash away the stain from this one. More than a few heads from the crowd were turned in her direction. I didn’t know her name, but I had a feeling she’d be remembered as that girl, the one whose car was vandalized with blood. She’d been marked by the words we’d all seen: liar, cheater, tramp.

  Why did the Red Court target her? Who wanted this girl humiliated—to be brought so low in front of the whole school? Or had she been reckless enough to throw in with them and ask for a favor she couldn’t repay? No. The vulnerability in her expression was too raw to fake. This girl was a pawn in the Red Court’s game. The pull to learn more about the group known for dealing out ruin and favors in equal measure went beyond cursory interest. I needed to know more.

  My stomach gave an uncomfortable tug, as if my body was eager to put distance between me and the girl now that I’d seen the damage. A sob shuddered through her, and I tore my gaze away, shifting my feet and noticing a stickiness beneath my sneakers. A thick coat of red clung to the bottom of my shoes, marking me, too. Ugh. I must have stepped in a pool of the blood. I told myself it was fake blood because I couldn’t stomach the alternative. I’d have to go change into my running shoes before next period.

  “Everyone back inside,” a teacher called from the main doors. His tone left no room for argument.

  The mass of students quickly dissolved, moving back into the school. The whispers rose to chatter as theories were passed around like mono on prom night. I trailed behind a couple holding hands as they maneuvered through the crowd.

  “This is the worst one so far,” the girl said.

  Her boyfriend scoffed. “Worse than the video of Brett Shultz’s keg stand? No way. He got kicked off the football team for that. Brett had Division I schools scouting him, too.”

  A rogue Facebook account had cropped up just after the school year began with some incriminating footage of the varsity running back at a party in a stunning display of upper body strength and chugging technique. The video had made it all the way to Principal McGovern, who reluctantly had him removed from the team, along with the school’s shot at a state title.

  “Do you really think she cheated on her boyfriend?” someone behind me asked.

  “Does it matter?” his friend responded.

  I shook my head in silent reply. It didn’t matter. That was the power of the Red Court; gossip and innuendo were all it took for a star student to fall from grace after accusations of academic cheating.

  As I passed a small cluster of teachers just inside the doors, I stepped nearer to ca
tch the edges of their hushed exchange.

  “—needs to do something.”

  “The district’s policy on bullying—”

  “I know the policy, but this is beyond ‘bullying.’ It’s the third time since the school year began.”

  This may have been the third public display of destruction in the last six weeks, but it was hardly the third time the Red Court had struck. Their takedowns were legendary and highly visible to ensure maximum exposure, but they also excelled in the small things no one would notice unless they were looking for anomalies. My eyes were wide open.

  For as long as anyone could remember, there have been rumors that the mysterious Red Court was pulling the strings behind the scenes at Heller High School. Its ranks were shrouded in mystery, but its influence was undeniable. Rigged student council elections, changed grades, and ruined reputations were all in their repertoire.

  Half of the school treated them like the boogeyman, the near mythical thing that was out to get you. It was easier to deny their existence than to acknowledge the specter of their presence. Takedowns like the one outside were as likely to be attributed to the Red Court as they were to be pinned on anonymous wannabes posing as the Red Court to allay suspicion. It seemed like the other half of the over two thousand students at Heller made a sport of trying to guess which members of the prom court were legitimate and which ones owed their wins to the Red Court.

  But I knew the truth.

  The Red Court was real, and I needed in.

  I pushed my way through the crowded halls to get to my locker. All around me a chorus of voices carried the news of the Red Court’s latest victim, the story spreading faster than I could move.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was probably my best friend. I ducked into an alcove to check my texts.

  Gideon: Did you hear?

  Me: I saw, actually

  Gideon: And?

  Me: It was probably them. Who else would mess around with that much blood?

  Gideon: Ew. Was it real blood?

  I thought of my shoes again and shuddered.

  Me: Who cares? The car looked like the prom scene from Carrie. They got their point across.

  Gideon: I saw Mrs. Martin leading the girl into her office.

  If something like that ever happened to me, I’d want to be put in the hands of the nicest—and most capable—guidance counselor, too.

  Me: Yeah, I saw her outside.

  Gideon: It’s too bad. She looked wrecked.

  We were reaching the point in the conversation at which I was supposed to condemn the monsters who did this. I wasn’t ready to go there with Gideon. Revealing the true depth of my disgust at everything the Red Court stood for was not something I could do over text. Truthfully, my feelings about the Red Court were this gnarled mass inside of me, too big to start talking about at all.

  Me: I gotta run. Lit is calling.

  Gideon: Ok, see you after.

  Before I’d made it halfway across the school, the warning bell rang. I gave up the attempt to change my shoes and turned to book it upstairs so I could suffer through American Lit with a room full of disenchanted sophomores. Oh, joy. On an ordinary day, class was a chore to get through. On a day like today, with my mind busy dissecting the latest Red Court takedown, it seemed like my school would live up to its nickname after all. Welcome to Hell High.

  * * *

  “Ember?” Mr. Carson called my name like a question.

  Crap. I must have missed something. I couldn’t seem to concentrate on Mr. Carson’s analysis of Leaves of Grass, which was a shame. Whitman had some serious nineteenth-century game going on. “I Sing the Body Electric” gave me chills the first time I read it.

  “Yes, Mr. Carson?”

  He sighed impatiently. Or perhaps disappointedly. “Do you have any thoughts on the final section?”

  I glanced at my notes from the night before to read the scribbles aloud, but a mocking voice cut in.

  “Whitman’s talking about the physicality of the body and how it is part of the soul or is the soul. Like it’s just as important as the soul, which at the time was elevated above a person’s body in significance.”

  I threw a baleful look toward Chase Merriman—insufferable know-it-all—and was given a smug half smile in return. He just loved to one-up me. Mr. Carson turned his gaze to me for more input, but my premeditated discussion points wouldn’t add anything to the dialogue. I gave my Lit teacher as unaffected a shrug as I could manage even though a sharp retort branded with Chase’s name tried to claw its way out of my throat. I pushed it down, not deigning to give Chase the satisfaction of knowing he got under my skin.

  Mr. Carson continued droning on, asking for our “thoughts” and “feelings” about the poem. Poor guy didn’t seem to understand his audience. Disengaged was our default setting. It really took some doing to rouse us. Though Whitman’s work was taboo back in the day, most of the students here had probably seen something more risqué in their Instagram feeds over breakfast this morning.

  The bell rang and Mr. Carson’s shoulders slumped. Another day of not making a difference. I almost felt bad for him, but this was his chosen career path. He had to know what he was getting into when he signed up to teach freaking poetry at a public school.

  “Could you hang back a minute, Ember?” Mr. Carson’s words caught me six inches from the door and freedom.

  I smiled tightly. The next period was my off-hour, but Gideon would be waiting. Every moment I wasted in the classroom diminished the chances of running out for my caffeine fix, which were already slim since I had to trek back across the school to change my sneakers first. I would not spend a moment longer than necessary in these shoes.

  “What’s up, Carson?” He was one of those teachers who thought using “Mr.” in his title meant he was uncool, so I dropped it whenever I needed extra brownie points. Not that my brownie point bank account was in that much need.

  “It’s unlike you to space out during an epic poetry discussion. Everything ok?”

  Mr. Carson was probably my favorite teacher, and we had a strong rapport, but I couldn’t tell if his use of epic was sincere. I hoped for his sake he was being cheeky.

  “Just having one of those days, you know?” Vague, Ember, be vague. “I’m sure I’ll be back to contributing the only meaningful insight tomorrow,” I added with a rueful smile, which he returned.

  “Sounds like a plan. So you know, I’m always here if you need an ear.” He shut his copy of Leaves of Grass with a snap, effectively ending our conversation.

  “Thanks!” I bolted out the door as fast as I could without seeming rude.

  Running down the steps two at a time, I nearly crashed into Gideon as he waited at the foot of the stairs near the school’s main entry.

  “What’s the rush, Em?” His words came out in a whoosh as he caught me.

  “I need to stop by my locker before we get coffee. Let’s go!”

  “Seriously? There isn’t time for a detour if we’re going to make it back before the hour is up. Let’s just hit the library instead.”

  He was right of course, but I was in desperate need of a large Americano. I wanted to argue, but once Gideon made a decision, there was no way he’d change his mind. If only there was someone as bullheaded as him on the debate team with me.

  Gideon broke down what he’d heard about the takedown this morning as we walked through the halls. I was too busy sulking to add to the commentary. I spun the combination on my locker, wondering how in the world I could explain the bloody shoes to my mom. The door swung open, and I tossed my bag to the ground. I was already toeing off my sneakers when a flash of red caught my eye.

  The Queen of Hearts sat alone on the top shelf of my locker. The coy smile on her face said she knew something I didn’t. If the rumors were to be believed, she did. A Queen of Hearts was the eponymo
us calling card of the Red Court’s leader, and its presence could mean only one thing: my invitation had finally come.

  CHAPTER 2

  I THREW A furtive look around, my ruined shoes forgotten. The passing period between second and third hour was almost over. Only a few stragglers and slackers lingered in the halls. Gideon was parked against a column, the door to my locker blocking his view of what was inside. I rubbed my hands together, willing feeling back into my suddenly numb fingers, and gingerly plucked the card from its place.

  My hands shook so badly it took three tries before I could make any sense of the message written on the back.

  YOU’RE IN

  BE READY @ 2:30

  THEATER ROOM

  THE RED COURT

  The words were scrawled in a haphazard block font. I wondered at the hand that wrote them. Was it the Queen of Hearts herself who issued the invites?

  “What’s that?” Gideon asked as he peered over my shoulder.

  I jumped in surprise and slid the card into my pocket. “I’ll tell you when we get to the library.” Gideon eyed me while I changed my shoes, content for now with the promise of an explanation.

  As far as Gideon knew, my interest in the Red Court was the same dark interest every Hell High student felt. With the first step in my plan complete, I was ready to tell my best friend the only secret I’d ever kept from him.

  Gideon led the way to the library at the heart of the school. Most people could count close friends on one hand; I could count mine on one finger. It was a hard fact to admit sometimes, but at least I had him. He got me from the very first day of middle school when we were the only two kids not laughing at fart jokes during lunch. Being Ember Williams, model student, was exhausting. It was nice to be around someone else and not worry about what they were thinking of me. Because Gideon would tell me exactly what he was thinking. All the time.

  “I have something to tell you.” We’d settled on a couple of armchairs in the center of the library. The familiar old-paper smell wrapped around me like a cozy sweater and I soaked in the atrium’s abundance of natural light.