Harold's eyes snapped open, his aural memory registering an unexpected noise in the room. His hand groped for a weapon – there was a sanctified blade above his bed, twelve inches of Sheffield steel blessed by Pope John Paul the First (allegedly). His hand found nothing and he frowned until the sandpaper of confusion ate away at his sleep-locked memory. He was on the sofa in the Green room, not in his bed on the third floor. He was taking a nap prior to heading out to battle who-knows-how-many assorted supernatural entities.
His hand closed around a cut-glass ashtray he could utilise as an ad-hoc chakram, though he doubted it was aerodynamic enough the return. Why did they still keep ashtrays in the house? No-one smoked, at least, no-one who was still alive. Uncle Frederick puffed away constantly and although you could smell the fruity aroma of Old Shag pipe tobacco he never left ashes about.
He tried to move without making any noise. Vampires could generally be silent in any situation, but he wasn't a full vampire, only a brother in blood, addictive as it was. It didn't grant him special powers other than to run fast and stave off the disease he was terminally infected with.
There was the noise again. Bugger it. If he couldn't be quiet, he could at least be fast. He sidled off the sofa and pounced.