Mind returned to Arthur Vance in warm, rhythmic waves.
The first sensation was not the bone-chilling minus one hundred and sixty-degree air of the sub-ice-slow trench. But a deep, comforting warmth that smelled of sun-baked pine needles, dry stone, and clean wolf fur.
Arthur opened his eyes. Above him arched the textured, dark-slate ceiling of Titus’s inside back shell shelter. The four six-sided black-ice dark rock pillars were deployed in a low, three-sided canopy. It turned aside every trace of polar wind. Outside the defensive ring, the surrounding cave remained dark and cold. But inside the shelter, the air was a balmy nineteen degrees, warmed by Pip’s gentle solar halo.
Arthur shifted his shoulders, letting out a low, reflex groan.
Every muscle fiber across his ribs felt bruised. His brain cortex throbbed with the dull ache of a severe sky pressure drop. Yet the dangerous blood-vessel spasms that had threatened his life during the convergence were fully gone. His nasal passages were clear, his brain blood pressure had steadied at a healthy one hundred and eighteen over seventy-six. His heart was beating at a steady fifty-eight beats per minute.
Beside him, a massive, warm weight stirred.
Grimm was lying on his side, his eight-meter frame curled into a protective crescent that cradled Arthur against his black glass flank. The giant hound opened one glowing violet eye, tracking Arthur’s movement with immediate, alert intelligence. Seeing that his tamer was awake and conscious, Grimm gave a soft, shuddering chuff from his deep…
