Arthur Vance returned to mind in slow, measured increments, like a deep-sea diver climbing through pressure drop stops.
The first sensation was the smell: not the rancid mutagen or boiling sulfur of the fallen cathedral, but the crisp, clean scent of medical-grade isopropyl alcohol, sterile ozone, and the comforting, earthy aroma of dry fur.
The second sensation was the weight.
Something massive, warm, and heavy was lying directly across his lower legs, pinning him securely to the padded razor-sharp mattress. Arthur opened his eyes, blinking against the soft, diffused amber light of the cabin’s overhead medical lamps. His vision, which had been stained with blood crimson during the final seconds of the convergence clock, had cleared. Even so, a faint, throbbing ache remained behind his eye orbits.
Arthur looked down.
Grimm was sprawled across the foot of the bed, his massive black chin resting over Arthur’s shins. The Stygian Dread-Wolf’s eyes were closed in a light, watchful sleep, his black nostrils twitching with every breath. The instant Arthur shifted his foot by a single inch, Grimm’s single notched ear snapped erect. His yellow eyes opened, bright and alert. His heavy tail began to thump against the silver-steel bed frame with slow, rhythmic thuds of canine relief.
