Page 3 of Raise Hell

“Don’t be a dick. I found her like this.”

“Who is she?”

“You’ll need to ask whoever broke her face. She could be anybody under all this bruising.”

“Someone really did a number on her.” He kneels next to me, but is as careful as I am not to touch the girl’s body.

Neither of us bother to speculate on who it might be.

Bacchanal is the biggest party of the year. Our entire student body is probably out here, drunk and having the time of their lives.

Which makes for dozens of potential suspects, including the other Havoc Boys.

Havoc House is composed of some of the most privileged sons on the eastern seaboard. Most of our fathers were Havoc Boys before us, and we will graduate into lives of excess and extreme wealth. Membership in Havoc House is lifelong, including all the benefits and responsibilities. Even once our school days are long behind us, we honor the pledge we take to protect each other.

Self-control isn’t an attribute that tends to flourish here. The thought that one of us could beat a girl half to death for kicks makes me sick, but that doesn’t mean I’m eager to figure out who did it.

Everything about this makes me more than a little sick.

“I need your help carrying her out of here.”

“And get her blood all over me? No way.” Brady looks over the girl’s still form, his disgust obvious. “I’m not getting anywhere near this mess.”

“Fine, I’ll just call an ambulance.” When I pull out my phone to make the call, he slaps it out of my hand. “What the hell?”

He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “You really want the police and paramedics swarming here? Tonight, of all nights?”

There have always been rumors around the local town about what we do out here during the yearly Bacchanal. People running naked through the trees. Animal sacrifices. Rites and rituals borrowed from pagan religions.

Orgies, consenting or otherwise.

Most of the rumors are exaggerated, but not all of them. But the last thing we want out here are witnesses with badges or curious townies waving cell phone cameras.

I pick up the phone, checking to make sure the drop didn’t crack my screen. “Are you saying we should just leave her here?”

Brady shrugs. “Get some pledges to drop her off at the door of the ER in the morning. That’s what we always do when things get out of hand.”

“The girl is bleeding from her head. She might be dead by the morning. This isn’t like the time Declan had to go get those matchbox cars surgically extracted.”

“Pledge week can be a real bitch.” Brady’s lips quirk at the memory before he gets serious again. “You’re overreacting.”

“I’m overreacting,” I repeat. “About the unconscious and bleeding girl who is barely breathing?”

“You know what, call the cops.” He holds his hands up in surrender, expression mocking. “If you want to be the one responsible for one of us getting carted off to jail, then I guess that’s on you. And when the school threatens to shut down Havoc House unless we narc on one of our brothers, just go ahead and flush two hundred years of tradition down the drain.”

Brady is an asshole, but all the other Havoc Boys would probably say the same thing. Most of our fathers were Havoc Boys, and so were their fathers before them. That used to be a prerequisite for joining, but the rules have loosened in the last generation or so. Loyalty to Havoc House has been driven into both of us since before we stepped foot on campus.

Nothing is supposed to be more important than that.

Not even a girl’s life.

My father’s voice rings through my skull, making my head ache.

Havoc means brotherhood over blood.

Havoc means never having to apologize.

Havoc is for life.

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