24
Catacombs, Paris, France. 11.50pm
Morgan woke in pitch darkness, shivering with the cold, and tried to orientate herself. She was still wearing the flamenco dress from the party and the earth was damp beneath her bare arms. Her shoes and bag were gone. She touched the cross around her neck. At least she still had that.
She sat up slowly, her head spinning, bracing herself with both arms on the floor until the dizziness subsided. Her fingers dug into the dirt. It smelled like peat, earthy and pleasant. It was soft from the damp and she could hear the dull thwack of water dripping from a low ceiling nearby. Morgan listened intently. In the distance, she could hear voices muted by the heavy air.
She stretched out and shuffled to the right, sweeping her arms in a wide circle before her.
