Heathcliff quietly asked the Doctor, "Aren't exorcisms for demons?", but the only reply was a series of dull clicks as deadbolts locked shut within Lazarus' chamber. Heathcliff sat to consider his options. It was late, or early, rather, too early. If he were to return to his apartment now, there was the possibility of being caught in the sun, should he undergo some delay on the way home, such as a flat tire. And, I very much doubt the police will find me here, should they want to speak with me again, so at least I'll get a day's uninterrupted rest. A patient takes this opportunity to shatter Heathcliff's hopes of sleep with a ghastly wail.

The unnatural shade of the Doctor's former ghoul was an unknown quantity, and that made Heathcliff very uneasy, but whereas he didn't know what the creature's daytime capabilities were, he did understand his own. Staying the night at Amber Hill, despite his reservations, seemed the most prudent course of action. That...and he had used Blood tonight, and would need more to make sure he was in control of his Beast.

He waited for Harold to return, and conveyed the Doctor's instructions for Harold to provide Vampire Room & Board. The ghoul nodded and led him down the hallway. Heathcliff made an effort to chat with him, so it didn't feel so awkward, but the hour was late and conversation difficult. The pair arrived in front of a cell window, through which an overweight, bald white man snored loudly, almost comically.

"Was gonna' transfer him over to the Doctor's personal care soon, the drugs should just about have flushed from his system. He's tied to the bed, for everyone's protection, so you're good to go. I'll send the nurse by to treat him in fifteen minutes. When you're done, 128, just down the hall, is vacant, windowless, and off the shift rota. I'll open it up for you, the door will lock itself when it's shut. Ok?" Harold puts his hands in his pockets and begins walking away, but Heathcliff's eyes have not left the man strapped to the bed.

"Hold on, Harold. Who is this man?" he asks softly.

Clearly, Harold was unaccustomed to Heathcliff's tone and question, and was momentarily flustered. "Er- uh, we call him Cactus Jake, Mr. Staley."

"Oh? He thinks he's a professional wrestler?"

"No, Mr. Staley. It's because his name is Jake, and when he goes off his meds, he thinks he's a Cactus," the ghoul answers evenly. "Very docile," he adds as he turns and walks away, before Heathcliff can tell if the man is having a go at him or not. But, he must have been telling the truth, because the bald man makes no sign that he has recognized the vampire has entered the room, only a quiet, 'Oh," as fangs press against his jugular and his vital essence is taken by another.

((Heathcliff takes 5 Vitae from Cactus Jake))

Heathcliff, his shameful Beast sated, leaves the room, shuts the door, and listens for the click of the lock. Satisfied, he retires to windowless One Twenty Eight, locks himself inside, shuts his eyes, and tries his damndest to sleep, and not to see visions of his wife and daughter with puncture marks in their necks. The task is all the more difficult for the orchestra of agony wafting into Heathcliff's cell, it's volume and pitch constantly changing, and the civil servant drifts off to fitful sleep fervently wishing this cell had been sound-proofed as his own Haven was...