Katherine
Laurin
On Sale Date: September 8, 2020
9781335145871, 1335145877
Hardcover
$18.99 USD, $23.99 CAD
Young Adult Fiction / Thrillers & Suspense
Ages 13 And Up
368 pages
ABOUT
THE BOOK:
Mean
Girls meets Siobhan Vivian’s The List in THESE VENGEFUL HEARTS, an utterly addictive standalone
YA debut that follows 16-year-old Ember Williams as she seeks revenge against
the Red Court, a secret organization of Heller High’s most elite female
students that specializes in granting and requesting favors—and which is
responsible for the accident that left her older sister paralyzed.
A thrilling novel about a secret society and
the dangers that lie in wait for anyone brave enough to join—perfect for fans
of Karen M. McManus, Kara Thomas, and Maureen Johnson.
Whenever something scandalous happens at
Heller High, the Red Court is the name on everyone’s lips. Its members deal out
social ruin and favors in equal measure, their true identities known only by
their leader: the Queen of Hearts.
Ember Williams has seen firsthand the damage
the Red Court can do. Now, she’s determined to hold the organization
accountable by taking it down from the inside. But will the cost of revenge be
more than she’s willing to sacrifice?
BUY
LINKS:
EXCERPT:
chapter
one
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 blood red 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 the girl huddled beside a tree
next to the parking lot. Tears stained 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 below 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 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 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 cheating.
As I passed a small
cluster of teachers just inside the doors, I stepped nearer to catch 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 19th 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 eponymous calling card of the Red Court’s leader, and its
presence could only mean one thing: my invitation had finally come.
Excerpted from These
Vengeful Hearts by Katherine Laurin, Copyright © 2020 by Katherine Laurin. Published by Inkyard Press.
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR:
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.
PRAISE:
“Ember draws readers into the drama of finding
the members of the Red Court… Recommend this to fans of E. Lockhart’s The Disreputable History of Frankie
Landau-Banks and Daisy Whitney’s The
Mockingbirds.” –School Library
Journal
“Laurin’s novel tackles the destructive power
of high school bullying through characters who are compelling in their
complexity.” –Kirkus Reviews
SOCIAL
LINKS:
Twitter: @writerkatherine
Instagram: @kl_writer
Author Website: https://katherinelaurin.com/
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