The glass of the oxygen bell jar had clouded with a fine, warm mist.
Beneath the clear dome, the Scorch-Sparrow lay on its bed of sterile cotton wool, its tiny chest rising and falling in an increasingly stable rhythm. The rich, clean stream of oxygen generated by the potassium chlorate flask had purged the stale carbon monoxide from its hemoglobin. The dusky violet tinge on its tongue and wet inner skin had given way to a pale, healthy coral.
Yet outside the heavy oak door of Annex 4, the iron boots of Dean Pendelton’s court guards hammered against the flags like blacksmith sledges.
“Vance! Open this door by executive directive!”
Grimm didn’t bark. In combat and crisis, the black glass-veined hound was eerily quiet. He lowered his front quarters until his chest grazed the cold stones. His black tail was held rigid, his lip drawn back to expose the dense, serrated ivory of his fangs. Along his spinal ridge, the jet-black bone osteoderms bristled, streaming a cold gravity pull that made the loose sawdust on the floor drift toward his paws.
“Hold, Grimm,” Arthur said in a low, level deep. “Heel. Guard the zinc slab.”
Grimm cast a single, reluctant glance at the oak barrier. Then he turned and planted himself between the door and the check table. His massive bulk blocked any direct line of sight to the bell jar. His dark eyes were locked on the doorframe with unblinking hostility.
