If I hadn’t appreciated how deserted and eerie Manchester had become in the last two days, I was certainly learning now. The normally bustling city centre was dead; it was a genuine ghost town. Given what else had reared its ugly head, I hoped we wouldn’t have any real ghosts to deal with too.
‘We could have given him a lift,’ I called ahead, suddenly desperate to fill the burgeoning silence. My voice echoed down the empty street. ‘The man, I mean. If he’s carrying supplies back here, it’s not going to be easy for him.’
‘Don’t you think you did enough for him by saving his sorry arse?’ Monroe muttered. He jumped from the roof of a shiny brand-new BMW to the roof of a dilapidated twenty-year-old Nissan. The apocalypse apparently didn’t care about income brackets; here, everyone was equal.
‘I’m just saying.’ I slid down a windscreen, getting my football shirt snagged on a sharp metallic corner. By the time I’d untangled myself and caught up with Monroe, the Travotel was in sight.
‘He’s definitely a faery,’ Monroe said, pausing to look over the silent building.
I glanced up and down its beige façade. There were no signs of life but it appeared untouched by fire, locusts or crazy tree roots. Then again, you could say the same about my house.
‘There’s no still no evidence of that.’
Monroe sent me a narrow-eyed look of scepticism before marching off to the hotel entrance. Part of me hoped we’d find it locked up and nobody home. Unfortunately, the door opened easily.
Outside, the lingering smell was of rot, decay and the end of things; inside there was the fragrance of cut roses, as if here life continued untouched. It was also spick and span, with a gleaming marble floor and tidy piles of newspapers from Tuesday. I flicked a look at the headlines. Manchester Madness! screamed one. Run For Your Lives shouted another. I suppressed the shudder that ran down my spine and ignored the look of triumph that Monroe sent me, as if a winged faery had appeared in a rainbow directly in front of us.
‘Still no real evidence,’ I murmured.
Monroe snorted and strode up to the empty reception desk, slamming his hand – unnecessarily, I thought – onto the bell that was sitting there.
A moment later, a man ambled out from a door to the side. He did indeed possess a set of startlingly green eyes, but that wasn’t what really surprised me about him. He had a pleasant, amiable expression and was wearing a neat grey suit complete with a name tag that stated that he was Michael Timmons. He positioned himself behind the reception desk with a cheery hello. He looked for all the world like a mild-mannered hotel manager, rather than someone who’d found themselves in the middle of a localised apocalypse in a near-deserted city that was under a barrage of magical interference.
Clapping his hands together, he beamed at us. ‘Welcome to my humble hotel,’ he intoned. ‘Despite the unfortunate nature of current events, we do indeed remain open for business. Are you looking for a double room or two singles?’
A growl emanated from deep in Monroe’s chest. ‘The unfortunate nature of current events?’ he spat. ‘You say that as if you and your kind are not wholly responsible for them.’
If there had been any doubt remaining as to Timmons’ ethnicity, the ashen look that suddenly spread across his face was enough to dispel it. He coughed and cleared his throat. ‘P...pardon?’
‘You heard me.’ Monroe reached across the desk and grabbed Timmons’ arm. ‘You’re a faery.’
Timmons didn’t try to pull away. ‘I…’ He straightened his shoulders and a defiant look came into his eyes. ‘I am. What of it?’
I had the distinct impression that Monroe was about to implode right in front of my eyes. I hastily stepped forward, keeping my voice calm and even in a bid to prevent the situation escalating. ‘It appears,’ I said carefully, ‘that faeries are responsible for what has occurred across Manchester. You know,’ I added, in case the man was a complete idiot, ‘the apocalypse.’
Timmons chuckled nervously. ‘It’s hardly an apocalypse. We’re all still here.’
It was definitely the wrong thing to say. Monroe snapped, leaping over the desk and slamming Timmons against the wall, causing several framed certificates to wobble, fall and smash on the floor. ‘We are not all still here. People have died,’ he snarled.
Uh-oh. This was not going well. ‘Monroe,’ I said. ‘Release Mr Timmons.’
‘Why are you still here?’ Monroe demanded, ignoring me completely. ‘Are there other faeries left in the city?’
Timmons choked. ‘I can’t very well answer you like this,’ he whispered. ‘Let me go and I’ll tell you what I can.’
I leaned over the desk and gently touched Monroe’s shoulder. ‘Mr Timmons is not going anywhere. We won’t let him. Let him go so he can talk properly.’
I could see how much Monroe was struggling. A desperate part of him wanted to rip out the faery’s throat, but in the end he did as I asked and released him. Timmons fell to the ground with a thump. Monroe stood over him, his hands on his hips. ‘Go on then,’ he spat. ‘Talk.’
Timmons stood up and pointed with a shaking finger to some comfy chairs and a low table. ‘There.’
Monroe let out a curt nod and followed him, all but stepping on his heels, as if at any minute Timmons was going to disappear in a puff of green smoke. We sat down. I could guarantee that none of us were even remotely comfortable.
‘The initial … troubles began,’ Timmons said, ‘because of a build up of magic in the atmosphere.’
‘Caused by you.’
‘Not me,’ he protested.
‘Caused by faeries.’
Timmons shook his head. ‘We’re not the only magical beings in this demesne. There are others.’
Monroe’s eyes flashed.
