No One Will Believe You

by Robert J. Crane

  As I gazed out into the dark, vacant construction site, I grimaced and contemplated asking the Uber driver to just take me home. I didn’t have to go to this thing. I was literally handing myself over to Byron’s potential associates.

  But I got out of the car, feeling like the biggest fool on the planet. Bad enough I was being stalked by a vampire; now I was walking right into their den.

  The car’s brake lights flared, like the tip of a cigarette as a pull was taken, and the Uber disappeared into the night. I was alone.

  The city of Tampa looked a lot scarier in the middle of the night. The lights of the skyscrapers, though not far away, were almost engulfed by the surrounding night. Even the arena across the street did not produce enough light to carry across to the corner where I was standing. Anything, or anyone, could be lurking in the pitch black shadows of the construction site behind me. Relative to Byron, and what he could do to me, murderers and rapists didn’t seem quite as terrifying. My heart spun at that morbid realization. Not for the first time, I thought about how much my life and my priorities had changed in mere days. Now I longed for the times when my biggest worry was the consequences of lying to Mom and Dad.

  What was I even looking for? The texter didn’t give me much to go on, other than to be here. Was someone going to appear out of the shadows? Was a car coming to pick me up?

  Was the party somewhere deep in that construction site?

  I groaned. This was too much, and I almost lost the little dinner I had eaten on the sidewalk with fear. Every sound was heightened—the soft flutter of a loose strip of tape in the construction site; breeze wending past plastic sheeting, pulling it this way and that.

  No footsteps that I could detect.

  That did not mean, though, that someone was not standing in the dark—that someone was not watching me.

  What would someone think of me if they were to drive by? A teenage girl, dressed like she was going to a club, standing on the street corner in the middle of the night. I looked like a hooker. Mom would be so proud.

  I shivered, not entirely due to the cool breeze whispering through, and drew the thin sweater I wore more tightly around my shoulders. It didn’t help.

  A pair of headlights appeared around a corner down the street, and I debated jumping behind the fence of the construction site. The last thing I wanted was to be propositioned by some strung-out crackhead looking for a good time.

  But as the car turned down the street toward me, I realized that it was a long, sleek, black limo—not entirely out of place in Tampa, wealthy as it was and all, but still … a limo. Here. It came to rest at the stop sign where I was standing. The engine was quiet, the outside impeccably clean, like it had been waxed just today. My reflection looked back at me from the windows. The limo did not move. Still, its engine purred.

  No door was opened, no window rolled down.

  Then it hit me. Was this my ride?

  I hesitated—then took a step forward.

  The limo still didn’t move.

  I put my hand on the handle and was surprised to find the door unlocked.

  I half expected an occupant inside to start shrieking at me, but the posh interior was entirely empty, leather seats waiting invitingly, soft jazz music playing in the background.

  The window up at the front that separated the driver from the passengers suddenly rolled down, and I saw a pair of piercing green eyes staring at me from the rear view mirror.

  “Miss Cassandra?”

  I stared at him blankly.

  His eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “Miss Cassandra?”

  “Yes?” I finally replied.

  “Please get in. We don’t want you to be late.”

  Obeying in spite of myself, I nodded, slipped in, and pulled the door shut.

  The man with the green eyes tipped his hat to me before the window between us rolled up again, leaving me alone again.

  The limo pulled smoothly away from the curb and headed east down the street, following along the bay. The engine noise was muffled by the jazz, and I could smell the rich leather that permeated the passenger compartment. Where were we headed? I was still unfamiliar enough with Tampa that I easily got turned around in its grid like-layout, so once the driver had taken a few turns left and right, I lost my sense of direction—which was worrisome, since after my Uber ride I was nearly out of money.

  I looked all around the spacious interior. It had blue neon lights inlaid into the ceiling, along with a sparkling mirror. Staring at myself, I wished that I had brought some concealer to hide the dark circles under my eyes. Could’ve done with spending a bit longer on the (messy) bun I’d pulled my hair into, too. All that effort on nice clothes and I’d thrown together my makeup and hair at the last minute. I consoled myself with the knowledge that I was heading into a party of vampires, and attracting their attention was probably the wrong move.

  The seats were black leather, smooth to the touch as I brushed my fingers along the seams next to me, feeling the little bumps in the stitching. Along one wall was a mirrored front cabinet. Curiosity got the better of me and I pulled one of the doors open. Inside was a fully stocked bar, complete with frosted glasses and crystal champagne flutes.

  Who was going to these lengths for me?

  More than ever, I wanted to know who had been texting me.

  I swallowed and closed the cabinet. The temptation to have a shot of something strong to help steel my nerves gave way to common sense. I needed my full wits about me if I was heading into the heart of the snake’s nest. I was tired enough without compromising my judgment any further.

  I did find water bottles and gratefully opened one up, drinking half of it in three gulps. I tried to imagine it cooling and calming my agitated nerves, but it didn’t really help. The steady bump of the wheels against the road did though, lulling me just a little.

  I sat back against the seat and took a deep breath. We drove past a brightly lit theater, and the light that pierced the windows fell upon a small, red box on the seat below the black, impenetrable divider. It looked so out of place that it immediately stirred my curiosity. Moving to the opposite seat carefully—to stop myself face-planting, and also to avoid attracting the attention of the driver—I examined the box more closely. It was wrapped in a shiny, reflective wrapping paper, like a way out-of-season Christmas gift, no bigger than the size of my forearm. I moved the package a little. The lights flickering by outside glinted off of its surface. Little reflective dots showed through in the paper as I lifted it. A small white tag hung beneath it, “Cassie” written on it in a swooping script.

  This wasn’t anything like the penmanship on the card that I had received with the flowers, so it wasn’t from Byron. This script was much more elegant—and softer, as if the writer had not pressed pen to paper as hard as Byron did.

  I pulled the top off, realizing that the box was not wrapped together, and found a black velvet insert.

  Lying nestled among the soft, shimmering velvet was a slender piece of wood.

  I picked it up and examined it more closely. It was about the length of my hand, from the tip of my longest finger to the bottom of my palm, and smooth to the touch. All of the imperfections had been buffed away. It was wider at one end and sharpened down to a point at the other. I touched it with the tip of my finger; it didn’t pierce the skin, but with the right force, it could definitely hurt someone. It was cool to my touch, and there was something comforting about the feel of it against my fingers.

  I glanced back down at the box and saw that there was another small piece of paper, folded neatly in the velvet. The wooden stick had hidden it.

  I picked it up and unrolled it.

  For your protection.

  I rolled the stake between my fingers. It was such a thin, small, innocent-looking thing, like a chopstick. The implications of this gift caused my nerves to buzz. A wooden stake could kill a vampire, according to every vampire myth I’d ever seen or heard.

  The idea of hurting a
nother person, living or not, made my stomach clench tightly, and I had to hold the seat underneath me to ground myself. I had ankle-high boots on. I couldn’t stow the stake by my heel—but at about the same length as my foot, and thin, I figured it could lie alongside my foot easily enough.

  I slid the stake carefully into of my boot so the pointed end rode along my calf. The fit was a little tight, but some jostling was enough to convince me I could walk with it. The stake offered safety, but also a reminder: my life was in danger—and most likely would be every second from now on.

  And whoever had sent the limo for me, whoever had invited me to go to this party that night, had known all about that danger. If they were willing to provide a means of protection for me, then that surely meant that I could trust them.

  At least that was what I kept telling myself. It was a pretty flimsy rationale, and it rang hollow enough that I had to repeat it a few times to try and settle myself down. I could be playing right into their hands, and I wouldn’t know. My palms were sweating all over the leather seats, slippery and damp, the worry eating at me like—well, not a vampire, thankfully. But I had to trust someone at some point, I knew. Might as well be now.

  The limo came to a stop, and I listened intently. I could hear a deep, throbbing bass somewhere in the distance, faint but constant. I heard the front door of the limo open, and then, only a moment later, the back door of the limo opened, and the man with the green eyes peered inside.

  “Lady Cassandra, we’ve arrived.”

  Lady? Really?

  I swallowed but nodded my head.

  I had one instant to make a decision. I would either walk into this party looking like the lamb led to slaughter that I was, or I could pretend to be something I was not: someone who belonged there.

  The green-eyed chauffeur helped me out of the limo and closed the door behind me. Its slamming sounded so very definite, like an audible reminder that my retreat had just been cut off and there was only one way to go—forward.

  I looked up at a large condominium complex, right on the edge of the bay. It was easily thirty stories tall, and I could tell by the flashing colored lights up near the top that the music was coming from there. Beautiful people were making their way into the building, like this was some sort of Hollywood red carpet party and I was the unannounced date of some key grip or makeup artist.

  Actually, the makeup artist’s date probably wouldn’t have needed concealer the way I did.

  These beautiful, glamorous people streamed in through the front door, greeting each other like old friends with wide smiles, handshakes, hugs. It was strange to watch, like it was intended to drive home that I was an outsider in this place, someone who did not belong here.

  Were they vampires? Or were they humans, like me? I couldn’t tell from this distance.

  The green-eyed man’s voice startled me out of my reverie. “I was asked to tell you that you will find what you are looking for on floor thirty-five.”

  I thanked him, catching that piercing gaze once more, then he tipped his hat at me, got back into the driver’s seat of the limo, and drove off. Looking back up at the building, I swallowed the lump in my throat.

  What had I gotten myself into?

  Chapter 16

  The lobby of the condominium was relatively ordinary, not totally unlike some where I’d stayed in on vacations with my parents. The crowd of beautiful people that had entered ahead of me had already cleared, disappearing into the clean, brightly lit elevators as I walked in. I was left to ride one by myself, fidgeting restlessly with my necklace and rings the whole way.

  Floor thirty-five was right at the very top—the penthouse suite—not what I’d have expected from vampires, if I’d believed in them before the past few days. Glamorous, sure, but glass windows everywhere in the heart of the sunshine state?

  Arrogant much, vampires?

  My heart was in my throat by the time the elevator rose, not pausing even once, to the top of the tower.

  A black wave of sickness pulsed through my body when finally it halted.

  The doors opened—

  Goosebumps sprang up on my exposed skin, as though the chill of New York winter had swept over me. Shrinking inward and folding my arms reflexively, I wished that I had worn a thicker sweater. Something faint and pleasant met my nose—the lingering scent of roses and lemongrass, I thought. Not what I’d been expecting—although, in fairness, I wasn’t sure what that had been. The pervasive, metallic smell of blood? Did I expect to see the vampires standing around a body like wolves, their teeth sunk into it, like some Discovery Channel documentary?

  I held my breath and peered out. The suite was dark, moody, lit only by candles.

  And it positively heaved with people.

  The room was round with tall ceilings, easily the height of a large theater. There were dark wooden pillars positioned around the floor, holding up what appeared to be a round balcony overhead. Right in the middle of the room, beneath the balcony, was what I assumed was the dance floor, for there were a few dozen people moving gracefully through pools of light.

  The suite was a fascinating combination of old and new. The walls and windows were large, tall, and modern, all glass and metal and sleek lines, providing a view of the city out of one side, the open and expansive bay on the other. The floors were dark wood, inlaid in a herringbone pattern, clean and sleek. But the small collections of furniture spread around the room were chaise longues and high-backed chairs and sprawling settees, all in plush red velvet and blue silks that looked like they’d came straight out of a Victorian novel. People—or vampires probably—lounged comfortably, some with drinks in hand, some with arms thrown around others.

  At the edges of the expansive windows were massive old-fashioned curtains, the heavy kind you’d see on a theater stage—for blocking out sunlight, I assumed. Now that the sun was down, they’d been thrown back for these partygoers to admire Tampa’s impressive views.

  For all my wild imaginings, in the short period I’d been able to ponder it, these vampires were downright ordinary. Most were a little older than me, at least in looks—but then, what was the myth about vampires? Once bitten, they were locked into the same age, even centuries on. The twenty-something whispering into the ear of a beautiful woman on the couch? He could’ve been a thousand years old, for all I knew.

  A chill ran through me again, different from the cold in from the room. How old could Byron be? He might have watched Shakespeare performed in the original Globe Theater.

  I hesitantly took a step inside, trying to rearrange my face into the picture of calm. A few eyes flicked my way—another shiver caressed my spine. Vampires.

  At least none of them moved toward me. Maybe I was blending in?

  Or maybe they just didn’t care.

  I wondered if everyone in the room was a vampire, or if any of them were humans. Did humans and vampires hang out? Was that a thing? That didn’t seem possible. What human would be insane enough to hang out with a vampire? Unless they didn’t know …

  There was a bar ahead of me. Curved, made of one entire log, and carved intricately, it stood in front of the windows and the sprawling view of Tampa Bay. An epoxy-like veneer reflected the glimmering lights from the bay like water. Beyond, a balcony opened to Florida’s night air. There were quite a few people moving around on it, and I saw a dark surface along one side—an infinity-edge pool.

  A sleek staircase curved along one side of the room up to the balcony, which seemed to made entirely of glass and had no railing on one side. I would definitely be able to look out over the room better if I were up there, I realized. So, carefully meandering through the throng, I made my way toward it, acutely aware of every pair of eyes on me.

  Still, I forced my face to reflect calm.

  I wasn’t going to let them see me sweat.

  It wasn’t easy, though. One vampire, in the form of Byron, had been bad enough. Now I was in a room full of them—and penetrating deeper, my every step bringi
ng me farther into the crowd—and farther away from the exit.

  My heart thumped frantically in my chest.

  With every thud, I willed it to be silent—for surely these creatures could hear, could identify me as not one of their kin—for their hearts surely no longer beat, no longer pumped thick, hot blood—

  Stop it, I thought, grinding my teeth. You haven’t been bitten yet. It’s a good sign, isn’t it?

  I hadn’t been immediately bitten by Byron either, though.

  Sweat slicked my palms, icy in the chill.

  Up the stairs, between two couches. New eyes on me. Taking in my expression? Or eyeing my neck?

  I made my way to the edge of the balcony. A railing wrapped it, overlooking the dance floor.

  As casually as I could—which was not very casual at all—I lounged against it.

  Trying to blot out a thousand thoughts all vying to be loudest—fear of detection; my fight-or-flight response, which was firing off madly; the vampires’ many advantages over me, including numbers, strength, fangs—I tried both to blend in and to take stock of the suite’s lower floor.

  Cliques, I suddenly realized. I hadn’t spotted it down below—but up here, looking down, the segregation was more readily apparent.

  The vampires on the dance floor, fluid and elegant, all wore what I would consider modern clothes. Most of them didn’t look any older than I was—maybe a year, two at most. The girls wore graphic tees and jeans, rompers or short, cute dresses. The guys wore button-up shirts and shorts, or V-neck shirts and jeans. Many of them had sunglasses nestled in their hair as well—purely aesthetic, since none of them could actually be out in the sun.

  Then there was the group on the balcony, many of whom wore long elegant dresses, or dark suits with long coat tails. I could even see one wearing a top hat. Another group down by the bar looked a little wilder than some of the others. Some had torn shirts or dirty, ripped pants. They didn’t appear to be interested in the others around them. I watched some knock back a line of shot glasses.