Necropolis

her hands round and lashed out.
    She was holding an icicle.
    She had broken it off the gutter and was holding it like a knife. The point was needle sharp. Using all her strength, she drove it into the flesh between his shoulder and his neck. The monk screamed. Blood gushed out. He fell to his knees, as if in prayer.
    Scarlett was already moving. She knew that she had to take advantage of the surprise, that speed was all she had on her side. The second monk had frozen, completely shocked by what had just happened.

    Before he could react, she threw herself at him, head and shoulders down, like a bull. She hit him hard in the stomach and heard the breath explode out of him. His hands grabbed for her, but then he was down, writhing on the floor. She pulled away and began to run.
    According to Father Gregory, there were just seven monks in the Monastery of the Cry for Mercy, and she had just taken out two of them. How long would it be before the ones that remained set off after her?
    Scarlett had to find the door that had brought her here. She knew where it was — a short way down the corridor, only a minute from the cell. With a bit of luck, she would be gone before they knew what had happened.
    It was only when she had taken twenty paces that she knew she had gone wrong. Somehow she had managed to get lost. She was in another long corridor — one that she didn't recognize. There was a picture of some holy person hanging crookedly on the wall. An ornate wooden chest. Another passageway with a flight of stone steps leading down. For a moment they looked tempting. They might lead her out of the monastery. But at the same time, she knew they would take her farther away from the door. The door was the fast way back to St. Meredith's. She had to find it.
    In the distance, a bell began to ring. Not a call to prayers. An alarm. She heard shouting. The second of the two monks — the one she had hit — must have recovered. Forcing herself not to panic, she continued forward even though she knew she was heading in the wrong direction, and that the farther she went, the more lost she would become. She heard flapping ahead of her, the sound of sandals hitting the stone floor, and a moment later another monk appeared. He saw her and cried out. There was an opening to one side. She took it, passing between the wood-paneled walls and a great tapestry, hanging in shreds, the fabric moldering away.
    The passage emerged in a second corridor, and with a surge of relief she realized that she knew where she was. Somehow she had found her way back. There was the table with the candlesticks, the painting of the crucifixion. The door was just beyond. There was nobody in the way.
    The noise of the sandals. If the monk had been barefoot, Scarlett might not have heard him. But even without looking round, she knew that someone had caught up with her, that he was running toward her even now. In a single movement she reached out, grabbed a heavy iron candlestick, and swung it round.
    She'd timed it exactly right. The end of the candlestick smashed into the side of the monk's bald head, knocking him out. Scarlett hit him a second time, just to be sure, then dropped the candlestick and made for the door.
    Someone appeared at the far end of the corridor.
    It was Father Gregory. He saw Scarlett and screamed something — maybe in English, maybe in his own language. The words were trapped in his throat. The door was now between the two of them, exactly halfway. Scarlett wondered if she could reach it. Father Gregory was dancing on his feet as if he had just been electrocuted. His good eye was wide and staring, making the other one look all the more diseased.

    Scarlett was about a hundred feet away, panting, gathering all her strength for one last effort.
    The two of them set off at the same moment.
    In a way, it was weird. Scarlett wasn't running away. She was actually hurtling toward the one man she most wanted to avoid. But she had to reach the door before he did. She had made her decision. It was the only way home.
    Father Gregory was surprisingly fast. His limp had disappeared and he moved with incredible speed, his fury propelling him forward. Scarlett didn't dare look at him.
    She was aware of him getting closer and closer, but her eyes were fixed on the door. There it was in front of her. She lunged forward and grabbed hold of the handle, but at the same moment his hands fell on her, seizing hold of the top of her coat, his fingers against