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It's 4:33 am.  His soft grey eyes fly open shifting from left to right.  Bathed in sweat, the sheets cling to his chest.  His consciousness hovers between dream and reality.  Sitting up, the room starts to come into focus.  Vestiges of his evening on the prowl are scattered around the room.  A black leather whip, tossed casually, slinks down the chair.  The breeze from the fan causes his leather duster to sway back and forth on the hanger.  He reaches for the wound from the fangs that grazed his neck.  James is a vampire hunter.  He walks to the window, draws back the curtains, and sighs as he takes in the view from the bedroom window: