Dawn broke over Mega-City 07 with a clarity that had not been seen in eighteen months.
The bitter sulfur winds of the badlands had subsided, replaced by a crisp, cold northern breeze that swept the lingering chemical smog from the mountain basin. Through the heavy armorglass windows of the Gate Seven command stronghold’s medical recovery suite, the first rays of pale golden sunlight washed over the clean linoleum floor.
Arthur Vance slowly opened his eyes.
The blinding photophobia and searing brain headaches that had plagued his brain cortex were gone, replaced by a dull, manageable muscular soreness that ran through his shoulders and neck. His vision was clear, the tiny eye hemorrhages fully reabsorbed thanks to twenty-four hours of nonstop IV neuro-peptides and Vesper’s low-hum sound therapy.
He didn’t move right away. Moving was physically impossible.
His feet were fully pinned down.
Sleeping across the heavy wool blanket at the foot of his iron cot, his massive black glass chin resting squarely across Arthur’s ankles, was Grimm. The four-hundred-two-pound dire-hound was snoring softly, a deep, rhythmic whistle escaping his black jowls with every breath. In his sleep, his hind legs gave an occasional, gentle twitch, dreaming of running across the salt flats, his tail thumping once against the iron bedframe before falling still.
