I browsed news archives, government publications, digitized newspaper clippings. Dozens of Eric Brookses—football players, musicians, politicians, ordinary workers—flashed before my eyes and were immediately rejected. Until, after almost an hour, fate led me to a dusty forum for military awards collectors, to a thread discussing the Order of the British Empire (OBE).
A prestigious award, bestowed by the Crown for outstanding contributions to public safety, science, or art. In 2003, 79 people received it. And among them was a certain Eric Brook. The message was accompanied by an old, grainy photograph from a British newspaper. In it, among people in formal suits, stood a tall, healthy black man. He was wearing a ridiculous, completely unsuitable long leather coat for the ceremony. The order was carelessly pinned to the lapel, and a fake, strained smile for the camera was frozen on his face. He looked like he had been dragged under the spotlights from a dark basement, and he hated every second of being at this event. Bingo. That's definitely him.
I was on the trail. A direct search for Blade was doomed, but now I had a point in time and space. The awards ceremony. And there were other people there. His entourage. I began to unravel this digital tangle further, punching in the names of those who received the award on the same day. Writers, actors, scientists—all misses. Until I stumbled upon Ben Carper. Another photo, from another newspaper. A brutal forty-year-old soldier, who, like Blade, came to the ceremony in inappropriate clothing—a field jacket—and smiled just as falsely at the camera. Two sore thumbs in high society. They definitely knew each other.
Unlike Blade, Ben Carper turned out to be much easier. His digital footprint was clear. I found an account on social networks in a minute. A man, now fifty-six, a retired British army soldier. He led a quiet pensioner's life: photos of fishing, rare pictures with his wife. The phone number, of course, was not publicly available.
It was time for a risky move. Using data "breach" services on Blade himself would be suicide—such a request would definitely be tracked by someone. But on a modest British pensioner? The risk is minimal. I went to a shadow forum, found a trusted specialist, transferred him $100 in cryptocurrency, and waited. Half an hour later, a message arrived in my secure box with one line: a British phone number.
Quick anonymous registration on Skype, because I had wisely removed the SIM card from the phone long ago, $30 for a package of international calls, and now I'm sitting, looking at the laptop screen. It's two o'clock in the afternoon on my watch. In Britain, depending on where he lives, it's about five to seven in the evening. Perfect timing.
My heart pounded. I went from theory to practice. Now, with the touch of a button, I will invade a world from which there is no easy way out. A momentary hesitation—and I pressed the call button. Long, drawn-out beeps of an international call... and finally, a click. A calm male voice with a British accent came from the laptop speaker:
"Hello?"
"Ben Carper?" I tried to make my voice sound as confident as possible.
"Speaking," the answer was short, clipped, like a sergeant's command. No pleasantries.
Understanding that long preludes are useless with such people, I decided to go all-in.
"I need Eric Brooks. Connect me with him. Urgently."
Silence reigned on the other end of the line. Long, heavy, oppressive. I already decided that he would just hang up.
"Who's asking?" the voice became even colder, if that was even possible.
"A person who is in serious trouble. Trouble that lurks in the shadows and has a pale skin tone," I veiled the hint just enough so that a friend would understand, and a stranger would consider me a psycho.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, mate," followed a predictable refusal. "And I don't know any Brookses. I'm not a charitable foundation for paranoids."
He didn't hang up. That was the key. He didn't hang up. This is a test. He was waiting for what I would say next. Ah, to hell with it! Let's play the role he wants to hear. The role of a desperate client.
"I'm not asking for charity!" I deliberately added pathos and tremor to my voice. "I need a specialist. The best. Someone who can save my humble life, or maybe this whole damn world! I'm only nineteen, I haven't really lived yet... Please. Pass it on to him. He'll understand."
I put all the sincerity I could muster into the last phrase. After that—short beeps. He hung up.
Failure. A crushing, deafening failure. I didn't convince the old, hardened warrior, who probably sent more humans and inhuman creatures to the next world than I've seen in my entire life. My pseudo-genius adventure with Blade failed before it even began.
So, plan "B." A panicked, risky, disgusting plan "B."
I needed to somehow pull one vampire out of the Cruiser. Place it in my Inventory separately from the car. And then interrogate it in the garage under the UV floodlights, after wrapping myself in body armor and keeping a stimulant at the ready. That way, I'll at least find out who they are and what they want. But how the HELL do I pull one creature out of a locked car that exists in my pocket dimension?! Summon it into reality? The doors will be locked. While I'm breaking them open, the creatures inside... if they're even still "alive"... No. Too risky. Maybe it's easier to drive into the city in my Honda and play the role of bait? An idiotic idea.
At that moment, a sharp, unfamiliar ringtone rang out on the laptop screen, in the Skype window. Incoming call. The caller ID was a meaningless string of letters and numbers. My heart skipped a beat, and then began to pound with frantic speed. It could be them. They could have hacked my laptop. But instinct, sharpened by danger, screamed: "Answer it!" I pressed the green button.
"Yo. You the one who needs a worker with a narrow profile?" a low, brutal voice came from the speakers. Again, a British accent, but different—deeper, with growling undertones. A voice like the grating of gravel. Could it be...?
"Do... do you know about bloodsuckers?" That's all I could manage to squeeze out.
"Well, I know they suck. But in my case—not blood," the voice chuckled gruffly at his own simple joke. "So, gonna fill in the worker on the details? I'll give you the price list when I'm on the scene."
It was him. Blade. Carper actually passed on the message.
"Yes... yes, of course!" I cleared my throat, trying to gather my thoughts. "It all happened yesterday. New York, Manhattan. I left college, got into my car, and almost immediately noticed I was being followed..."
I briefly retold him the story of the chase, deliberately omitting the fact that the Inventory existed and how exactly I got rid of the pursuers. I lied that I just managed to break away from them in city traffic. My story was stitched together with white thread, and Blade, without interrupting, let me finish, and then asked only one, the most important question:
"Okay. Now explain, what the hell made them start hunting you, a whippersnapper? You don't sound like the type to cross them."
"Um..." I hesitated. "Apparently, because I stole the Ghost Orchid."
And before he could react, I hastily added:
"But I didn't know it belonged to anyone! Honestly! I was just walking through the park at night, and I saw something incredible blooming on a tree. How could I resist?"
Silence hung in the speakers, and then a sarcastic chuckle sounded.
"Yeah. Right. Just happened to be in a place at night that's considered sacred among those in the know. Just happened to know the name of the rarest mystical ingredient. Just happened to be able to see it and pluck it, unlike 99% of mortals. And the cherry on top—just happened to know about the shadow side of this world and about a fixer like me. Kid, you're a terrible liar."
It was like being doused with ice water. He saw right through me.
"Okay," I swallowed. "I didn't find the flower by chance. But I had no idea it had owners, that's the truth! And as for why I needed it... I'd prefer to discuss that in person. This question may directly affect the payment for your services. For an approximate understanding of the value of the payment, you can watch the movie Limitless."
This was my only trump card. To shift the conversation from the plane of "help a poor student" to the plane of "I have something that might interest you," and I even gave an immodest hint as to what it was.
"Hmm. Reasonable. You piqued my interest," he agreed after a short pause. "And too much extra chatter over an open connection, even though I'm calling through a secure channel. Okay, I'll be in New York in eight hours. Manhattan, Lily and Millie cafe. Know it? Their signature burger and a story I can believe are on you."
He paused and added with a touch of black humor:
"And try to survive until the meeting."
The call ended. I leaned back in my chair and exhaled loudly, feeling weakness spread throughout my body. Fear mixed with euphoria. I did it. I'm going to live.