City of Magic: The Complete Series by Helen Harper (book club recommendations TXT) 📕

‘I’m the enchantress of Manchester South,’ I said. ‘I can look after myself.’ That came out far snottier than I’d intended and I winced. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise. You are indeed the enchantress.’ He smiled at me. ‘I’m not suggesting that you can’t look after yourself, just that this water thing could be a big problem and it would be handy to have some back-up.’

I made a show of looking over Monroe’s shoulder for his own seemingly invisible back-up. He nodded ruefully and acknowledged my point.

‘This is the third time we’ve had an issue with the water,’ I said. ‘I managed perfectly well on my own on the first two occasions.’

Monroe suddenly looked uncomfortable. ‘It’s my turn to apologise. I would have helped you out both those times but I was rather … busy. By the time I was free, you’d already solved the problem.’

‘So why come now?’ I asked softly. ‘Why not send someone else in your place?’

He offered me a lazy shrug, although the light in his eyes intensified. ‘I wanted to see you.’

Feeling oddly embarrassed, I shifted under the weight of his gaze. ‘I might have delegated sorting out the water problems to someone else.’

Monroe snorted. ‘As if. Delegation isn’t your thing.’

‘Apparently it’s not yours either.’

He watched me for a moment. ‘Maybe we’re more alike than either of us realise.’

I doubted that very much. Bonds had been forged between us in the first days of the magical apocalypse that had struck Manchester back in September, but there were fundamental differences in how we saw our future in this brand-new world. I was focused on building a community where everyone was welcome; Monroe’s intention was to create a safe haven for those whom he deemed worthy – and who would toe his line and follow his rules. Not that the bruises on his face suggested anything remotely safe about his northern quarter.

In any case, our differences were the reason he had set up in the opposite end of the city to me. Most of the ‘normals’ clung to my side, while most of the magical beings stuck with Monroe. Birds of a feather flocked together, I suppose. There were a few outliers who’d elected to avoid both communities. And, of course, there was the Travotel run by Timmons, the sole faery left in this world. The hotel acted as a neutral ground between our two areas. It was the Switzerland of Manchester – but with fewer cuckoo clocks, less chocolate and more mini-soaps. Somehow Timmons had an endless supply of mini-soaps.

I wasn’t in the mood for a session of home truths with Monroe. That way just led to angst and, from his bruises and the heavy shadows under his eyes, Monroe needed more light-hearted fun than soul-searching commentary. To that end, I lifted my chin and offered him a small grin. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘my hair matches your eyes if nothing else.’ I fluffed up my blue locks and fluttered my eyelashes.

Monroe snorted but I was certain I detected a faint loosening around his shoulders. I’d take what I could get. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘This isn’t my first bloodied-water experience. I’ll lead the way.’

He swept a bow, indicating his acquiescence as I turned and headed for the narrow metal staircase that led to the top of the small reservoir. I could feel Monroe’s eyes on my back as I climbed. I suspected he was looking at my arse rather than my spinal column but I could live with that. Part of me hoped that was the case.

Although I held a remarkable amount of information and number of facts in my head, all of which I’d garnered in my career as a semi-professional gambler, until recently water hadn’t been one of those things that I knew much about. I hadn’t needed to; I turned on the tap and water poured out. I’d taken it for granted completely. More fool me.

Neither did we have any plumbers in our community who understood anything about the pedestrian magic of running water. There were therapists and yoga teachers, electricians and professional dog walkers, but there wasn’t a single plumber. It had taken considerable research in the Manchester library, as well as considerable work, to even begin to understand the mysteries of large-scale plumbing and water mains. I was proud of myself for that.

When the city had run at capacity, water was pumped in via a massive reservoir more than a hundred miles away. It was quite a feat of engineering, which I’d have admired if it weren’t so damned out of reach. Thanks to the cordon the British army had set up around the city, technically we couldn’t get out of Manchester. There was one exit point that we still controlled from the inside but if you left that way you couldn’t get back in. You’d probably also be thrown into quarantine until the government decided you weren’t a magical risk to the rest of the country. No, a reservoir up in the hills wasn’t any good to us whatsoever.

Fortunately, before the population of Manchester boomed in pre-Victorian times, there was another far smaller reservoir here on the outskirts and it remained accessible to those of us within the city boundaries. Until very recently, this little reservoir had been almost unnecessary. It didn’t hold enough water for a normal city and it was more a point of historical curiosity than anything useful. Not so now. With considerable patience and a lot of work, we’d got it up and running again so that we could turn on a tap and at least get a trickle of something in return for our trouble. The water wasn’t very clean, as we didn’t have the expertise or the equipment to treat it, and it ran at temperatures between ‘fuck it’s freezing’ and ‘my lips are turning blue’ – but it was better than nothing. Apart from when it turned to blood, of course.

I clumped up