Necropolis

might shatter at any time.
    Desperately, she tried to work out what had happened. For no reason that she could even begin to imagine, two men she had never met had grabbed her and thrown her into a cell. Could she have strayed into a secret wing of St. Meredith's, somewhere that no one was meant to go? The single strip of sky told her otherwise. That and the freezing weather. She remembered that the monk had spoken in a foreign language.
    She was no longer in London.
    It seemed crazy, but she had to accept it. Maybe she had blacked out at the moment she had been seized.
    Maybe they had drugged her and she had been unconscious without even knowing it. Everything told her that this wasn't England. Somehow she had been spirited away.
    With a spurt of anger, she scrambled to her feet and went over to the door. She wasn't just going to sit here and wait for them to come back. Suppose they never did come back? She might die in this place.
    But she quickly saw that there was no way through the door — not unless it was unlocked from the other side. It was massive and solid, with a single keyhole built for an antique key. She tried to squint through it, but there was nothing to see. She straightened up, then hammered her fists against the wood.
    "Hey! Come back! Let me out of here!"

    But nobody came. She wasn't even sure if her voice could be heard outside the cell.
    That left the window. Could she possibly climb up, using the rough edges of the brickwork to support herself? Scarlett tried, but her fingertips couldn't get enough grip, and anyway the bars at the top were too close to squeeze through, even assuming she could drop down on the other side. No. She was in a solid box with no trapdoors, no secret passages, no magic way out. She would just have to stay here until somebody came.
    She sank back into a corner, trying to preserve what little body warmth she had left by curling herself into a ball. The strange thing was, she should have been terrified. She was completely helpless, a prisoner. This was an evil place. But she still couldn't accept the reality of what had happened to her and because of that, it was difficult to keep feeling scared. This was all like some bad dream. Once she had worked out how she had got here, then maybe she could start worrying about what was going to happen next.
    An hour passed, or maybe two. Finally there was a rattle of a key in the lock, the door swung open again, and two monks came into the cell. Scarlett couldn't say if they were the ones who had grabbed her in the corridor, as all these people were dressed the same way. Their hoods were up and they were skeleton-thin. Even if you stood them up against a wall, it would have been difficult to tell them apart.
    One of them barked out a command in the strange, harsh language she had heard before, and when he saw that she didn't understand, he made a rough gesture, telling her to stand up. Scarlett did as she was instructed. Her face gave nothing away, but she was already thinking. If they took her out of here, maybe she would be able to break away. She would run back down the corridor and find the nearest exit.
    Whatever country she was in, there would have to be a police officer or someone else around. She would make herself understood, somehow find her way home.
    But right now, the two monks were watching her too closely. They led her out with one standing next to her and the other directly behind, so close that she could actually smell them. Neither man had washed, not for a long time. As they reached the corridor, Scarlett hesitated and felt a hand pushing her roughly forward. She turned left. The three of them set off together.
    Where was she? The place had the feel of an old palace or a monastery that had been abandoned long ago. Everything about it was broken down and neglected, from the peeling walls to the paved floor, which was slanting and uneven with some sort of mold growing through the cracks. Naked lightbulbs hung on single wires (so at least there was electricity), but they were dull and flickering, barely able to light the way. The air was damp and there was a faint smell of sewage.
    Scarlett noticed an oil painting in a gilt frame. It showed a crucifixion scene, but the colors were faded, the canvas torn. An antique cabinet with two iron candlesticks stood beneath it, one door open and papers scattered on the floor. Scarlett and the monks turned a corner, and for the first time she was able to see outside. A series