Page 12 of Raise Hell

Three

People liketo say that revenge is a dish best served cold. But true vengeance takes planning and preparation. You have to smile when you want to scream, bide your time as the anger burns in your gut.

The only emotion that can really drive you forward is rage. You need the heat and fire if you want to burn down every obstacle on your journey to revenge.

Before anyone trots out Confucius, let me be clear. I won’t just be digging two graves, but enough to put all of Havoc House six feet underground.

Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.

When I was a baby, all pink-cheeked and blue-eyed, my parents used to call me a little angel.

Now, I’m the right hand of God.

It’s time to do some smiting.

Being at St. Bart’s is weirder than I thought it would be, but also strangely easier.

I had blown this up so much in my mind, picturing the Havoc Boys as demons straight from Dante’s Inferno. It had almost been a relief to find they’re just normal boys.

Gorgeous, but human.

I don’t know what it is about the prettiest faces, but they always seem to have the most to hide. The looks they wore when I strode into the dining hall told me more than any police report or eyewitness testimony ever could.

They are responsible for all of it.

St. Bartholomew’s College is supposed to be a Catholic school, so you’d think it’d be full of good little boys and girls.

But for every saint, there are dozens of sinners.

What this place needs is an avenging angel.

Initially, I’d planned to lie low for a couple days, at least until classes started. But I underestimated just how quickly gossip spreads. As soon as I caught them staring at me as I walked into the dining hall, I knew we were already at war.

And the entire school clamors for a front-row seat.

My roommate, Anya, seems eager to jump up my ass and build a nest there.

“Memory loss. I’ve heard that getting hit in the head can do that.” She watches in fascination as I unpack my duffle bag, obviously trying to pick out which items of clothing have designer labels. “You really don’t remember anything?”

“I don’t have total amnesia. I know my own name and how to eat with a fork,” I point out as patiently as I can. Whatever I say will be spread far and wide within the hour. “It’s just that some things are fuzzier than they should be.”

“Like what happened that night.”

“Yes, that,” I acknowledge with a tight smile. “And a few other things.”

Our dorm room is basically an apartment. We share the bathroom and kitchenette, but both of us has our own bedroom.

Of course, you wouldn’t know that from the way Anya stretches out on my freshly made bed like it belongs to her.

The tight ponytail on top of my head makes my head hurt, or maybe it’s Anya. Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about my roommate at the moment. Instead, I pull out the tie and let it fall down my shoulders and back.

“Your hair is a lot longer,” Anya comments cheerfully. “And I like those platinum streaks. Did you get it colored?”

I tuck a strand behind my ear and give her a soft smile I hope doesn’t look like a grimace. “Yeah, I thought it was time for a change. Do you really like it?”

The barrage of questions hasn’t stopped since she greeted me at the door. I’m not stupid enough to think she actually cares, but information about me carries serious social currency right now. Everyone wants to know more about the girl who ruined a Havoc party and then had the nerve to come back to school six months later like nothing ever happened.

Anya is in the unique position to drink directly from the source. I’m sure she’ll be surrounded by other girls at dinner, regaling them with stories about how she was the first person to pump Olivia Pratt for information. I can’t blame her for taking advantage of the opportunity.

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