And what a success it was.
Pete’s father, Percival Andrews, was the head of Andromeda Corp, the third-largest mining house in the world and the largest producer of diamonds in the world. Andromeda Corp’s rise to success was unparalleled. It was a remarkable rags-to-riches story, and Percival Andrews had been lauded world over for his keen business acumen. However, unbeknownst to most people, the secret to Andromeda Corp’s success lay not in Percival Andrews’ management ability but rather in his Gift. As a powerful Terra, he had manipulated the Earth Element, digging elaborate and extensive mines, in places where even the most sophisticated modern machinery could not go, and finding diamonds where others hadn’t even thought to look.
One of the keystone statements within the Gifted Charter was that no Norm should be allowed to know of the existence of the Gifted unless by prior consent of the Council. Therefore, the story of Percival Andrews and Andromeda Corp was a rare flaunting of the Gift to the world, his feats of mining only barely within the realm of belief. Having now given the matter more detailed consideration, Jamie was surprised that it had taken the Rising this long to conclude that the Andrews family was intimately connected to the Council.
Jamie squeezed his eyes shut; his mind was wandering.
What had happened?
Yes, they had left the party.
Pete, as always had seemed immune to the charms of his admirers. At some point in the evening, Pete seemed to sense Jamie’s discomfort in the overt display of excess. With the effortless ease of an experienced partygoer, he extracted them from the adoring group of girls with a promise to refill empty glasses.
“Bored?” Pete asked lightly, as they moved a decent distance away.
Jamie grimaced. “It isn’t really my scene.”
“Not really mine either,” Pete admitted. “I’ve just had more practice at pretending. Come on, they won’t miss us if we disappear for a couple of hours.”
Pete led Jamie through the massive house, beyond a cordon protected by two severe and humorless security guards. Finally, they entered a room that appeared to be a cross between a library and a wine cellar. It was artistically lit, highlighting the endless shelves of expensive wine and books. The overabundance of mahogany combined with the lingering smell of cigar smoke gave the suggestion of an old-world smoking room.
Pete turned to Jamie with a grin. “My father’s study,” he said, giving the last word air quotes. “This is where he comes to smoke, away from my mother’s prying eyes.”
At the end of the room was an entire wall of expensive bottles of whiskeys and brandies, all set beyond a protective layer of glass. Pete gestured for Jamie to take a seat in one of two deep leather couches placed in front of the wall of whiskey.
Jamie sank into the couch, stretched his long legs in front of him, and turned in time to see Pete slide out a hidden panel with a keypad. Jamie raised his eyebrows in a questioning glance.
Gesturing at the bottles behind the glass, Pete said, “This stuff is expensive, and my father didn’t want his teenage sons getting wasted on vintage whiskey. But Dad uses literally the same combination for everything—my brother and I figured it out years ago.”
He punched in a few numbers on the keypad, and the glass slid seamlessly to the side. Pete grabbed a couple of glasses and glanced at Jamie, silently asking if he had a particular preference for any bottle.
Jamie shrugged helplessly. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
Pete selected a bottle and splashed a generous amount into both glasses, handing one to Jamie. “Cheers,” he said.
“Cheers,” Jamie replied and took a gulp from his glass. The whiskey was smooth as it ran down his throat with a smoky, woody flavor, spreading a pleasant heat through his chest.
They sat in companionable silence, and Jamie allowed himself a few minutes to relax. Soon enough, he would have to broach the subject of Pete’s uncle Sebastian. Sebastian Andrews, the man suspected to be the leader of the Cleaner Army and the whole reason Jamie was here. Who, unfortunately, had yet to make an appearance at the Andrews’ New Year’s Eve party.
But Jamie’s luck turned almost immediately. The door slid open, and a stocky, well-built man strode through. He was in his mid-forties with just a dusting of gray in his dark, curly hair.
Pete shot to his feet, and only through some combination of luck and good balance, he avoided spilling whiskey all over himself.
“Sir!” Pete barked out sharply.
“I see that I’m not the first person to think of this place as a good hiding spot,” said the newcomer.
“We’ll leave you to it, sir,” Pete said quickly.
The man shook his head. “Pete, I’m not your father, and I couldn’t really care less if you’re drinking his precious whiskey or not. Now, are you going to pour me a glass or just stand there gaping like a fish?”
Pete jolted back into action. “Of course, sir.”
The man turned to Jamie. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“No, sir,” Jamie replied, “James Thiessen.”
The man nodded. “Right, of course—I thought you looked familiar. I saw you compete in this year’s Elemental Trials.” He ran his dark-eyed gaze over Jamie, giving Jamie the strange impression that he was being quickly, but expertly, summed up, much like a prize stallion at auction.
“You did well in the Trials,” the man continued, apparently liking what he saw in Jamie.
“Thank you,
