Necropolis

run, but she couldn't move. The dragon opened its mouth, showing teeth like kitchen knives.
    And that was when she woke up and found herself still lying on top of the bed and covered by the two blankets, with the first, dreary light of the morning creeping in through the window. It was ice-cold all around.
    Scarlett sat up. She was already beginning to shiver. What had that all been about?
    Signal One?
    She had never seen the two words written down before. She had no idea what they meant, even if she was certain that they must be important. They had been shown to her for a reason.
    She looked up at the window and guessed that it must be about five or six o'clock in the morning. It was difficult to say without her watch. Presumably the monks would bring her some sort of breakfast. They had made it clear that they needed to keep her alive. Could she somehow overpower them when they came in, fight her way through the door and make a run for it? She doubted it. The monks were thin and malnourished, but they were still a lot stronger than her. If only she had a weapon — that would make all the difference.
    Sitting on the edge of the bed, she searched through her pockets. All she had was a blunt pencil, left over from art class, a comb, and a transit card. The sight of it made her sad. It was so ordinary, a reminder of everything she had left behind. How many thousands of miles was she now from London buses and Tube trains?
    There was nothing she could use. She considered taking off her coat, throwing it in the face of whoever carried in her food. But it was a stupid plan. She still didn't know there was going to be any food, and anyway, it wouldn't work. They would just laugh at her before they took her away and whipped her or whatever else they planned to do.
    There had to be a way out of the cell. Scarlett got up and examined the door a second time, running her hands over the hasps, pressing against it with all her weight. It was so solid it might as well have been cemented into the wall. That just left the window. There were three bars and no glass. The cell had been built to house a man, not a child — and certainly not a girl. Might it be possible to squeeze through, after all?
    She hadn't been able to reach the window before, but maybe these monks, as clever as they might be, had made a mistake. They had supplied her with a table and a chair. Quickly, she dragged the table over to the window, put the chair on top, and climbed up.
    For the first time, she was able to look outside. There was a view down a hill, the ground steep and rugged, thick patches of snow piled up against black rocks. A few buildings stood in the near distance, scattered around. They looked like barns and abandoned farmhouses that might belong to the monastery but that were more likely part of a village, just out of sight. A series of icicles hung above her, suspended from a gutter that ran the full length of the building. She had forgotten how cold it was, but she was quickly reminded by a sudden snow flurry blowing in off the roof. Her lips and cheeks were already numb. It had to be less than zero out there.
    There was no way down. The bars were too close together, and even if she had managed to slip through, she'd be at least sixty feet above the ground. Try to jump from this height and she would break both her legs.
    She was still in the cell two hours later when the door opened and they finally brought her something to eat.
    Breakfast was a bowl of cold porridge and a tin mug of water, carried in by a monk she hadn't yet met —
    for his face certainly wasn't one that she would have forgotten. It was horribly burned. One whole side of it was dead and disfigured as if he had fallen asleep with his head resting on an oven. Scarlett turned her eyes away from him. Was there anyone at Cry for Mercy who hadn't rotted over the past twenty years? A second monk stood with him, guarding the door.
    'You…eat…little…girl." Burnt Face was proud of his English, but his accent was so thick, she could barely make out the words.
    He set the tray down, and Scarlett moved toward him.
    Her hands were clasped behind her back, and she was clearly on the edge of tears. "Please," she said.
    "Please let me out…" Her voice was trembling.
    The sight of the girl, pale and bleary-eyed after the long night, seemed to amuse him. "Out?" He sneered at her. "No out…"
    "But you don't understand…" She was closer to him now, and as he straightened up, she brought