Shivatya stood in one corner of the funeral hall, feeling his fangs tingle in that familiar, loathsome way. The sensation crawled up the roof of his mouth, sharp and insistent, like a warning he couldn't escape. He had never liked too many people assembled under one roof, and funerals, with their suffocating grief and stale air, were the worst kind of gathering. He couldn't stand this place for one more second. The weight of the mourning, the incense, the low hum of whispered condolences, it all pressed against him like a shroud.

His urges had been getting worse over the past couple of months. The usual feeding urges gnawed at him with a hunger that refused to be reasoned with, and cold, packaged blood was beginning to taste no different than water. Even the anxiety medication, which once dulled the edges of his craving, was failing him now, losing its grip, like everything else in his carefully controlled life.