Necropolis by Anthony Horowitz Page A

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 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,