Losham was close now, perhaps too close, the heat washing over him in waves that made his skin prickle and his eyes water. The light was searing even with his hand raised to shield his face. But he couldn't look away.
The first explosion came without warning.
One moment, the glass was cracking, flaring, yielding to the plasma cutter's assault, and the next, the world erupted in fire and force and a sound so loud it overwhelmed even the roar of the cutting torch.
Losham was thrown backward, his body leaving the ground before slamming into the concrete pillar near the stairs. Pain blossomed across his back and shoulders, and he hit the floor and rolled, arms coming up instinctively to protect his head as debris rained down around him.
The second explosion followed before he could draw breath, then the third, each one a hammer blow of pressure and noise that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The floor buckedbeneath him. The ceiling groaned. Somewhere in the chaos, someone was screaming—high and desperate and abruptly cut short.
Losham curled into a ball, hands pressed over his earmuffs, teeth clenched against the urge to scream himself. The world had become nothing but noise and heat and the endless rain of debris, chunks of concrete and glass and things he couldn't identify pelting his body, tearing at his clothes, drawing blood from a dozen flesh wounds.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the explosions stopped.
Silence.
No—not silence.
The ringing in his ears was too loud for silence, but the explosions had ended, leaving behind an oppressive stillness in the aftermath of destruction.
Losham uncurled slowly, pain flaring along his spine and ribs as he pushed himself to his hands and knees. Dust filled the air, so thick he could barely see beyond arm's length. It coated his tongue, his throat, making him cough and gag as he struggled to draw breath.
"Rami." His voice came out as a croak, barely audible over the ringing in his ears. He pulled off the muffs, letting them drop to the debris-strewn floor. "Rami!"
A groan from somewhere to his left. Losham crawled toward the sound, broken glass and concrete shards biting into his palms and knees. He found his assistant slumped against the wall near the stairs, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead, butalive. Conscious. His eyes met Losham's with an expression of dazed horror.
"What..." Rami coughed, spitting blood and dust. "What happened?"
Losham didn't answer. He was staring past his assistant, into the dust cloud that still hung thick over the main chamber.
Where the enclosure had been.
He pushed himself to his feet, swaying, and stumbled forward. The dust was beginning to settle now, drifting down in slow spirals, revealing the devastation.
The plasma cutter was obliterated, reduced to twisted metal and scattered components. Losham looked away from what remained of the workers who had been operating it.
The ceiling had partially collapsed, a ragged hole opening to the level above. Rubble filled the space where the enclosure had stood—chunks of concrete, bent steel supports, broken glass that glittered like diamonds in the dim light.
And sand. Fine white sand, everywhere, spilling from the wreckage like blood from a wound.
Losham walked forward as if in a trance, his feet carrying him through the debris field without conscious direction. He stopped at the edge of the collapse zone, staring down at the ruin of his father's secret.
Gone.
Whatever had been buried in that sand was now buried under tons of rubble. It would take weeks of sifting and hauling to findwhat was there. Gold and jewels could probably be reclaimed, but not artifacts, if there had been any.
"My lord." Rami's voice came from behind him, weak and strained. "My lord, we need to leave. The structure may not be stable."
Losham didn't move. He stood at the edge of the crater, staring at the sand and rubble, and felt something hard and cold settle in his chest.
His father had booby-trapped the enclosure.
Of course he had.
He had been paranoid, secretive, and trusted no one, not even his own sons. Especially not his sons. Navuh had known that they would betray him and that whoever assumed power would try to claim whatever he'd hidden in that glass prison.
He'd made sure that the attempt would end in failure.
Even dead, the bastard had found a way to win.
