"And where is the alien now?" Blade asked.
"In there, in the house."
"He hasn't escaped?"
"No, sir. I made sure of that. It's scary, you know—what if he started shooting us with a blaster or something. I went down to the basement every half hour and whacked him on the head with the handle. Only I, well… uh…" The farmer faltered, uneasy, like a straight-A schoolgirl caught outside a church asking for alms. "I might've overdone it a bit."
"In what way, Mr. Creevey?" the agent asked.
"You see, during the witching hour I was so sleepy I didn't notice my eyes closing. And so I was dozing by the cellar hatch when suddenly heard a scream: 'Honorable wizards, allow Donky to serve you!' I jolted awake and saw Dennis and Colin all scared. That alien was bowing to my kids. I panicked, grabbed the shovel, and… hit him too hard on the head. Anyway, I must've let my guard down if the alien somehow managed to get out of the cellar and free himself from the ropes. Hope I didn't kill him. He's been lying unconscious for half a day now."
"Mr. Creevey," Alex began, pointing at the nearest window to the right of the front door, "according to my information, the alien is currently in that room."
"Yes, sir. He's in the living room. I sent my wife and kids to stay with relatives, and I've been waiting… I mean, was waiting for someone to come. I called the constable a few more times, and then you arrived. Oh! Gentlemen, why are we standing out here? Please, come inside."
The house proved cozy, furnished in a rustic style with a touch of modernity. Knitted doilies rested on the windowsills, a carpet covered the floor, and a fireplace stood against the wall. The idyll was broken only by a gray-skinned dwarf with long ears and a long nose, lying on the floor before the carpet, bound with rope like a caterpillar.
Alex stepped forward, pushing Richard behind his back. He was tense as a coiled spring. Richie didn't even notice when a Glock 17 appeared in the agent's hand. The weapon was aimed at the unconscious dwarf, on whose head a crust of dried blood had formed.
"A house-elf," Richard stated, peering out from behind Blade's shoulder.
"A house-elf?" Alex asked.
"A house-elf?!" the farmer's eyes widened.
"House Elf."
"Are you sure?" Mr. Blade asked.
"I've never seen one in person, but by description it's a perfect match." Richard tilted his head and glanced between the elf's legs. "Male!"
"As if I hadn't noticed!" Mr. Creevey snorted nervously. "So it ain't an alien, it's a brownie?"
"Yes, sir, a typical brownie," Richard said calmly. "Judging by the tattered jacket he's wearing and the way his ribs stick out as if he's been starving for a long time, I'd guess his master threw him out."
"Then why did the brownie end up on this farm?" Alex asked.
"Looking for new masters. From what I gathered in my tutor's lectures, the psychology of house-elves is such that they cannot imagine life without wizard masters. Which suggests that Mr. Creevey's children are magical."
"WHAT?!" the farmer was stunned. "My kids are what?"
"Sir, I wasn't supposed to be the one to tell you," Richard said. "Wizards, psychics—call them what you like. There are people in this world with supernatural abilities. Their existence is concealed by all governments. Most likely, your children are among the gifted. In that case, after finishing primary school, they will receive invitations to attend a special school for gifted children."
Mr. Creevey did not want to believe in wizards, brownies, and all that nonsense, but just in case, he decided to remember everything the young Lord was saying. The farmer noticed that Richard spoke confidently and with knowledge. And of course, the high aristocracy ought to be well-versed in such matters..
"Can I refuse this?" the farmer frowned.
"No, Mr. Creevey, refusal is not an option," Alex answered for the boy. "All gifted children must attend a special closed school so they don't accidentally harm anyone with their abilities. Moreover, you must not tell anyone about brownies, magic, or anything supernatural. By the way, have you ever noticed anything unusual about your children? Floating objects, spontaneous fires, teleportation, that sort of thing?"
"Well, you can't say for sure," Mr. Creevey pondered. "They're just regular kids. Once, the curtains in the kitchen caught fire when Colin was six. We figured he'd been messing with matches. Other than that, nothing strange."
"Gentlemen," Richard drew their attention, "I understand there's a lot for you to discuss, such as confidentiality and all that, but first, I suggest we carry the elf to my car. Preferably without the snipers shooting us."
"They won't," the agent said confidently. "And what are you going to do with the house-elf, Lord?"
"First, provide first aid. After that, I'll decide. In any case, Agent Blade, house-elves fall outside your jurisdiction."
"Will you hand him over to the wizards?" Alex asked.
"Unlikely. Only as a last resort. I don't want anyone's memory wiped or our family name dragged through the mud. If he survives and proves sane, I'll put him to work. If he dies, I'll hand him over to you for experiments."
"In that case, call me immediately," Mr. Blade said, handing Richard his business card.
"Carry him to the car," the young Grosvenor ordered.
The agent and the farmer grabbed the house-elf by the arms and legs and carried him toward the exit.
"Feet first?!" Richard protested. "He's still alive!"
Grunting with effort, the men brought the elf to the Bentley.
"Damn!" Mr. Blade swore. "Small, but heavy!"
"That's why I dragged him by the ears," Mr. Creevey shared wisely. "Easier than throwing your back out. Maybe we should grab him by the ears now?"
"Leave the ears alone!" Richard commanded sharply. "His head's already bashed in, and you're suggesting we tear off his ears too?"
"Where do we load him?" Alex asked.
"In the trunk," Adam suggested. "It's such an expensive car—he'll stain the whole interior with blood."
"Are you kidding me?" Richard snapped. "He's not a dead hooker to be hauled around in the trunk! Put him in the back seat."
(End of Chapter)
P@treon: /SadRaven
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