Page 15 of Make Them Bleed (Pretty Deadly Things #1)

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Deceiving Juno keeps me alive and kills me in the same breath.

Her footsteps clatter up the metal stairs right on cue. I put on the Hoover mask and tug a black hoodie over my head. When she opens the door, the world briefly narrows to the flush in her cheeks and the stubborn light in her eyes.

“Afternoon,” she says, and tries for breezy. It almost works. “I come bearing upgrades.”

I take the box in her outstretched hands, feigning curiosity, and flip it open. Ghostface stares up: glossy white, elongated scream, the exact brand of horror that raised me. A smaller foam insert holds a better voice modulator than the chip I’ve been using—bless her.

“You’re ditching Herbert,” she says, hands shoved into her jacket pockets, trying to look nonchalant and failing adorably.

“Hoover had a good run,” I gravel through the old modulator. I tap the Ghostface forehead with a knuckle. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Hoover. I guess the name will still stick unless you want to tell me your real one.”

I stall, thinking about her request. Is now the time to tell her? Absolutely fucking not.

I palm the mask and hold it up between us, changing the subject. “Be honest… this for my protection or your aesthetic?”

“Both can be true.” Her mouth tilts. “Also…you’ll scare fewer neighborhood children.”

“Debatable.” I jerk my chin toward the bathroom. “Give me one minute.”

“Take all the time you need,” she sing-songs.

In the bathroom’s cracked mirror, I pull the hood up, settle Ghostface on.

The latex smell is new, sharper than Hoover’s old rubber musk.

I fit the modulator at the base of my throat, click to a lower register.

My reflection is a nightmare; my heartbeat steadies.

The mask is a suit of armor and a permission slip.

Behind it I’m allowed to be the version of me that doesn’t apologize for taking charge.

When I step out, Juno’s mid-text, thumbs flying, but her head snaps up. Her gaze drags from the mask’s eyes to the curve of the jawline the hood hides.

“Okay,” she breathes, and actually flushes. “So…that’s…sexier than I expected a faceless cryptid to be.”

Heat punches low in my gut. I try for levity. “Don’t kink-shame vigilance.”

She laughs, a little breathless. “If you show up with a plastic knife, I might just lose it.”

I cross the room, stop close enough that she has to tip her face up. The mask’s hollow eyes reflect her own. “Noted.”

Sparks jump the distance like there’s a wire between our ribs. She wets her bottom lip. I shouldn’t. God knows I shouldn’t. But the mask makes me bolder and the clock makes me dumb, and caution takes one quiet step back.

“Juno,” I say, modulator-low, “we’ve got a window to make real progress. I need your head clear.”

“My head’s very clear,” she whispers, and the lie tastes exactly like the truth sounds. Her fingers twitch at her sides. For a breath we hover on the tip of something catastrophic and perfect.

I force air into my lungs and step away. The ache is immediate. “Then let’s work.”

Her exhale shivers, relief tangled with disappointment. “Right. Work.”

I am not the kind of guy who prays to inanimate objects, but I find myself murmuring apologies to the Herbert Hoover mask as I lay it to rest on the filing cabinet. “You did good, old man,” I tell the rubber face. “Time to retire to the Great Depression in the sky.”

Juno touches his face. “I’ll miss him.”

My heart warms at her sentiment. My Juno.

I slide back into the chair at our main station and bring up the HOLO-BURST dossier.

“I scraped event calendars this morning. Gracewood Holdings is throwing a private ‘Neon Surge’ launch tonight for HOLO-BURST’s new formula.

Every founding member on our board will be there, plus investors, brand managers, and whoever their PR team strong-armed into posting. ”

Juno leans on the back of my chair, reading over my shoulder. The subtle weight of her hand on the chair’s rail is a gravitational field. “Where?”

“Hotel Delphine. Ballroom A for the public-facing demo, Ballroom C for the invite-only after party.” I click to a floor plan. “I can get us into the first. For the after party, we’ll need a split op. I’ll bring friends.”

“Friends?” She arches a brow. “You have friends who know about this?”

I consider the truth. “They know about me. They don’t need to know about you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Because anonymity has worked so well for everyone in this saga.”

“I keep you out of their crosshairs,” I say, firmer than intended. The modulator turns it into a command. “We move as ghosts. We gather intel. That’s all they need.”

She opens her mouth—to argue, to poke fun, to wring an explanation out of me—but something in my stance stops her. She exhales, then nods once. “Fine. Ghosts.”

I pull a canvas duffel from under the desk and flip it open. Four rubber faces blink up: Millard Fillmore’s unfortunate mutton- chops, James K. Polk’s dour jaw, Rutherford B. Hayes’s fluffy beard, Chester A. Arthur’s dandy stash. The Lesser-Known Presidents Squad. I feel ridiculous and oddly proud.

Juno stares, then snorts so hard she chokes. “Oh my god?”

“Waste not.” I tap Hayes’s forehead. “Ballroom C is ‘Neon Noir.’ Masks encouraged.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Their Instagram invite says ‘come masked, leave legendary.’ ” I want to gag and also applaud their branding department.

She groans. “Influencers deserve unionization.”

“I’ll suit up my team.” I zip the duffel and stand. Time to recruit.

Gage arrives at the loft first, sneakers squeaking on linoleum, two energy drinks and a bag of gummy bears swinging from his hand. He takes one look at the duffel of dead presidents and grins so hard his face might split. He grabs James K. Polk in his hands.

“Bro. Are we forming a government?”

“Shadow cabinet,” I say. “With snacks.”

Knight shows five minutes later with his denim jacket slung over his shoulder. He fist-bumps me, then lifts Rutherford B. Hayes like Hamlet contemplating Yorick. “This guy looks like he invented the tax audit. Plus we have the same last name.”

“Accurate,” I say.

Render rolls in next—quiet, bearded, hummingbird-nervous, and a camera bag that probably holds more than the GDP of a small nation. Render doesn’t do long hellos. He grabs the Millard Fillmore mask, tapping it. He looks at me, and says, “Audio?”

“I’ve got bone-conduction earpieces and a push-to-talk channel. Ozzy’s bringing socials.”

“Ozzy?” Render asks.

“Friend of a friend,” I say. “Real name is Ozborne, but he goes by Ozzy because he can impersonate a brand rep, a lighting tech, or a paid ‘creator liaison’ with equal conviction. He’s our chameleon.”

On cue, my phone buzzes with a text:

Ozzy: I’m downstairs. Parking is trash. Bring me a president who doesn’t look like he bites.

I grin and jog down to let him in. Ozzy is a study in controlled chaos: bearded, nose ring, black blazer over a HOLO-BURST tee he thrifted for authenticity.

He takes in the masks, selects Chester A.

Arthur, and slides it over his head like he was born with mutton-chops.

“Hot,” he pronounces through the rubber, sliding his vocoder in place.

Juno meets us at the loft at seven-thirty, already in her chosen armor: black-ripped jeans, plain white tee, and a hoodie. Her black boots could break hearts or kneecaps. When the squad sees her, there’s a beat of stunned silence. I feel weirdly possessive and absurdly proud.

“Team,” I say, modulator engaged behind Ghostface. “This is—” I stop myself before Juno leaves my mouth. “—our client.” I turn to Juno. “Crew names only tonight.”

She nods, amused and serious all at once. “Then call me…Final Girl.”

Gage throws both hands up. “On brand.”

We run the plan in the loft while Ozzy tapes tiny mics under our collars and Gage checks battery levels.

“We’re only doing the after party, obviously,” I say, pointing to the Hotel Delphine map.

“Arthur and I go in early. He’ll flirt his way across the check-in table and pull a couple of spare lanyards.

Polk and Hayes, you work the main floor.

Post by the sponsor booth and record anything off-script.

Fillmore, you’re our eye in the sky—balcony shots, zoom, capture entrances and exits.

Final Girl”—I meet Juno’s gaze, my voice softening despite the mask—“you stick with me. We don’t separate, not even for ‘just a minute.’”

She rolls her eyes again but her mouth softens. “Yes, Dad.”

“I can be your daddy if it gets you to follow protocols,” Ozzy mutters, and Knight smacks the back of his head.

My jaw tightens as the rest of the crew laughs.

Render tosses us hotel-branded pins he yanked from a swag box last week. “If anyone asks, you’re micro-influencers with a combined reach of ‘big vibes.’ Especially Polk. Polk screams big vibes.”

Gage, in Polk, does a gentle body-builder curtsy. “Thank you for seeing me.”

We pile into two cars. Ozzy and Render’s because those are the only ones Juno wouldn’t recognize.

The city flares neon as we snake toward downtown: marquis lights, river reflections, the Delphine rising like a crystal set piece.

The entry is a circus—step-and-repeat banners, a DJ under a chrome arch, a wall of canned HOLO-BURST arranged in a pixelated skull.

Influencers preen; the founding members glide through like wedding party royalty.

Render spots a lanyard table, and in a stealth-like move scoops up enough for all of us.

Game on.

“Remember,” I tell the team over the channel. “We’re not here to get content. We’re here to eavesdrop. Final Girl and I will peel off when the after party doors open. Meet at Stairwell C if anything goes sideways.”

“Copy,” Gage murmurs.

“Copy,” Ozzy echoes, already filming a “walk-and-talk” that looks real enough for any Instagram story.