The world did not end with a roar; it began with an immense, sickening pressure that punched the air straight out of Jon’s lungs and slammed his skull against the stone.
The shockwave hit the chapel of St. Jude before the sound arrived. The granite floor leaped upward two inches under Jon’s boots, an earthquake jolt that threw him sideways against the cold masonry of the nearest nave pillar. High above the aisle, the lead cames of the lancet windows bowed outward with a dry, groaning shriek, four panes of heavy green bullseye glass shattering into crystalline spray that rained down across the empty pews. Down the altar flue, a heavy blast of black chimney soot blew into the sanctuary, billowing across the communion cloth in a thick, greasy cloud that choked the beeswax candle flames and plunged the chancel into murky twilight.
Then the sound tore through the stone.
It was a hollow, thundering crack—the concussive detonation of forty barrels of refined sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter detonating simultaneously inside a confined basement vault. The granite ribs of the ceiling groaned under the concussion, showering dried mortar and lime dust down upon the flagstones like a sudden winter blizzard.
“Lord of the Waters,” Sister Oda whispered, dropping flat upon the altar steps and throwing her dark woolen sleeves over her head as chunks of plaster clattered against the communion rail.
