Night was never dark enough in the city.
There was a single window in the small room he shared with the others. Unnatural orange light spilled through the single-paned glass. He could practically feel it, the individual particles screaming in his head like members of a discordant orchestra. The street outside was quiet, but he could hear the cars going by on Mission as clearly as if he were standing in the middle of it.
He shook himself, instantly regretted it as a bolt of pain shot through his skull. Maybe he was coming down with something. Did his kind get sick? He never had, not in the seventy or so years since he’d converted. But it would certainly explain the throbbing in his head, the odd twitches in his muscles, the insistent ache in his gums where his fangs kept trying to shove through.
He crept over to the blow-up mattress where he slept, and painfully lowered himself to it. Pain spiked in his temples. He closed his eyes. No use. He couldn’t shut it out, any more than he could shut out the light or the increasingly unbearable noise. He’d been out of sorts for days now, but he’d thought it would pass.
It hadn’t. Whatever it was, it was getting worse.
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L.J.K. OLIVA 