Page 51 of Above Cursed Winds

“Nova is with him now,” Aidan added. “I have no doubt she won’t leave his side until he’s back on his feet.”

A beat of silence before Gideon spoke. “Nero, where is Jeremiah?”

The monarch’s molten-gold eyes were hard and his voice was unforgiving. If Zia didn’t know better, she’d have said that the monarch was a moment away from leaping through the phone.

“He said he needed time,” Zia answered instead. “He flew off before I could stop him.”

Cursing, Gideon glanced away, hiding his displeasure under the thin veil of civility. Isaiah broke the tension.

“Your man is circling the drain, Gideon. Jeremiah hasn’t been right since the night of your attack.”

Isaiah took no pleasure in the words, and Zia realized then that he was voicing concern for the Elemental in the only way he knew how.

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know, Isaiah.”

“His investigation and insights have been invaluable. And … he’s shown improvement while he’s been here,” came the carefully worded response from Nero. “He’s become a bit more even tempered in the week he’s been on clan lands.”

Gideon focused on the Raeth with something akin to hope. “Has he?”

“Well, cards on the table, he broke my nose the first day he was here,” Nero’s positive demeanor returned with a chuckle, “but he’s been significantly less volatile since then.”

Dragging a hand down his face, Gideon grimaced. “I’m sorry, Nero.”

“Nah, Key said it was important.” Shrugging, Zia’s sovereign waved a dismissive hand. “What’s a little blood between friends?”

***

Struck silent, Zia hovered in a dark corner of the underground fight club. Only minutes ago, she’d followed Jeremiah’s psychic signature here, and used her innate gifts to sneak into the scene without discovery.

Manipulating the doorman’s perspective on her entry had been child’s play. Normally, a Psyche could only alter how memories were logged into the brain for storage. Zia’s powers could control nearly all facets of the mind. Her primary ability worked with archived memories, but she could also alter the perception of events as they were taking place. As soon as she had a hold of their mind, she could recode what they’d believed they’d seen or heard. The process was so seamless that her abilities could rival a Raeth gifted with Vision.

She hadn’t known what to expect of the club, and what she found made her want to vomit.

Bare to the waist, Jeremiah had unflinchingly borne every strike his opponent had offered, all without defending himself. Blood trailed liberally from his face and lips, bruises blooming over nearly every inch of exposed skin.

Only a few minutes after her arrival, the Elemental had gone on the offensive. A switch had been flipped, as if he’d accomplished what he’d come for and was now done being the literal punching bag.

The emotions churning viciously within him rammed into Zia’s mind like a freight train. The weight of his guilt was a pressure that made her sag against the wall, sorting through the myriad of sensations that funneled through her gift. Blinking back tears, she could only watch what played out before her.

The viciousness of his attacks had been both impressive and frightening. Each blow was unerringly accurate, sending his larger opponent reeling. Within a minute, Jeremiah had turned his brutal, one-sided beating into a victory, knocking out the other man with a single final uppercut to the chin.

Shouts of approval roared around her, the smell of sweat and overbearing masculinity wafting through the musty air. As Jeremiah stood tall in victory, she winced at the injuries across his flesh.

Blood poured from his head, a vicious looking cut above his eye seeping down the left side of his face, and he spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor before nodding once at the referee.

The Elemental emerged from the octagon without fanfare. A few hearty slaps on the back before he waltzed up to the bar and held up a finger. Shuffling over, the middle-aged bartender eagerly poured him a beer from the tap.

Zia had seen enough.

Before Jeremiah had taken a single drink, she was at his side. “Shall I inform your monarch you’ve taken a hobby?”

Jeremiah stiffened on the stool, the half-raised glass freezing in midair. He didn’t pivot to face her, rather, his every muscle tensed as though he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Sliding in next to him, she enjoyed watching him panic. “For the record, although I encourage most people I know to pursue their passion, I don’t particularly enjoy watching anyone getting beaten to a bloody pulp. Especially not those who, I’d hazard a guess, do it because they’re punishing themselves.”

Zia stole the drink from his hand. “Care to explain, J?”

Chapter Twenty-Six

---