It was a univeral trait among species, it seemed, to respect those you saw fighting over those that simply sat around and barked commands. For as hedonistic as Damon could be, the vampire could still fight, and literally got his hands dirty. That clearly went a long way with these people.

And, to some degree, with Javik. He hadn't expected much of the baron, or his man-servant, and in practically no time at all they'd cleaned up every shambling skeleton. Though it was dark now, he could neither see nor smell any stragglers. Whatever had caused it apparently ended, much like the spectre dogs that rose from the unmarked graves two years ago.

He watched the vampire's visage shift without comment, or reaction. "You have a strange definition of 'fun'. Does your spire have a graveyard?"

As in, maybe they should make sure everyone there had stayed six feet under.