"And where is the alien now?" Blade asked.
- There, in the house.
- Didn't he run away?
"No, sir. I was playing it safe. I was afraid he'd shoot us with a blaster or something. I'd go down to the basement every half hour and hit him over the head with the handle. But I... well..." the farmer hesitated, like an A student before a church porch. "I think I overdid it a bit."
"How exactly, Mr. Creevy?" asked the special agent.
"You see, I was so sleepy in the dead of night that I didn't even notice my eyes were closing. So there I was, sleeping next to the hatch to the basement, and I heard a cry: 'Gentlemen wizards, allow Donkey to serve you.' I woke up suddenly and saw a terrified Dennis and Colin. This alien was bowing to my children. I got scared, grabbed a shovel, and... hit him over the head too hard. Anyway, I wasn't paying attention, because the alien somehow managed to get out of the basement and untie himself. I hope he doesn't die. He's been unconscious for half a day now."
"Mr. Creevy," Alex began, pointing his finger at the nearest window to the right of the front door, "according to my information, the alien is currently in that room.
- Yes, yes, sir. He's in the living room. I sent my wife and kids to stay with relatives, and I was waiting... I mean, waiting for someone to arrive. I called the constable a few more times, and then you arrived. Oh! Gentlemen, what are we standing here for? Come in.
The house was cozy, furnished in a rustic style with a modern twist. Knitted coasters on the windowsills, a rug on the floor, a fireplace. The idyll was broken only by a gray-skinned dwarf with long ears and a nose, lying on the floor in front of the rug, bound with ropes like a caterpillar.
Alex stepped forward and pushed Richard behind him. He was tense as a spring. Richie didn't even have time to notice when a Glock 17 pistol appeared in the special agent's hand. The weapon was pointed at the unconscious dwarf, whose head was caked with blood.
"The brownie," Richard stated, looking over Blade's shoulder.
- Brownie? - Alex asked.
"A brownie?!" the farmer's eyes widened.
- House elf.
"Really?" Mr. Blade asked.
"I've never seen one myself, but from the descriptions, they look exactly like house elfs." Richard tilted his head to the side and looked between the elf's legs. "A male!"
"I didn't notice!" Mr. Creevy snorted nervously. "So what's this, not an alien, but a brownie?"
"Yes, sir, a typical brownie," Richard stated calmly. "Judging by the fact that he's wearing a shabby jacket and his ribs stick out as if he's been starving for a long time, I'd guess his boss kicked him out."
"Then why did the brownie end up on this farm?" Alex asked.
"I was looking for new owners. As far as I could tell from my tutor's lectures, house-elves are psychologically incapable of living without wizarding masters. Therefore, Mr. Creevey's children are wizards."
- WHAT?! - the farmer was stunned. - Who are my children?
"Sir, I shouldn't be telling you this," Richard said. "Wizards, psychics-call them what you will. But there are people with supernatural abilities in this world. Their existence is hidden by all governments. Your children are most likely such gifted. In that case, after finishing elementary school, they will receive invitations to enroll in a special school for gifted children."
Mr. Creevy didn't want to believe in wizards, brownies, and other such nonsense, but just in case, he decided to remember everything the young Lord said. The farmer noticed that Richard spoke confidently and with knowledge of the matter. It was understandable; the highest aristocracy would be aware of such things.
"Can I refuse this?" the farmer frowned.
"No, Mr. Creevey, refusals are not an option," Alex answered for the boy. "All gifted children must attend a special boarding school, so that they don't inadvertently harm anyone with their abilities. Furthermore, you are not allowed to tell anyone about brownies, magic, or anything supernatural. By the way, have you observed anything strange in your children? Flying objects, spontaneous combustion, teleportation, and the like?"
"Well, you wouldn't say so," Mr. Creevy mused. "They're just ordinary kids. The kitchen curtains caught fire once when Colin was six. Well, we thought he was playing with matches. Nothing out of the ordinary, really."
"Gentlemen," Richard said, drawing everyone's attention. "I understand you have a lot to discuss, like secrecy and all that, but first, I suggest you bring the elf to my car. And preferably, don't let the snipers shoot us."
"They won't shoot me," the special agent stated confidently. "And what will you do with the house elf, Lord?"
"I'll provide first aid first, and then I'll think about it. In any case, Agent Blade, house elves are outside your jurisdiction."
"Will you hand him over to the wizards?" Alex asked.
"Hardly. Only as a last resort. I don't want anyone's memory wiped and our name bandied about. If he survives and proves sane, I'll put him to work. If he dies, I'll give him to you for experiments."
"In that case, call me right away," Mr. Blade handed his business card to Richard.
"Take him to the car," ordered young Rich.
The agent and the farmer grabbed the house elf by the arms and legs and carried him towards the exit.
"Feet first?!" Richard was indignant. "He's still alive!"
The men, panting with effort, carried the brownie to Bentley.
"Damn it!" Mr. Blade cursed. "Small, but heavy!"
"That's why I dragged him by the ears," Mr. Creevy shared his wisdom. "It's easier than breaking my back. Maybe we should grab him by the ears now?"
"Put your ears down!" Richard commanded. "His head is already broken, and you're suggesting we rip his ears off."
"Where should I load it?" Alex asked.
"Then we should put it in the trunk," Adam suggested. "It's such an expensive car, he'll get blood all over the interior."
"Are you kidding me?" Richard said indignantly. "That's not a dead whore's corpse to carry around in the trunk! Put it in the car."