The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

Darville’s mouth.
    A cry of distress penetrated his need to kill. The distress grew and became his own. Brevelan called him.
    The death of this man would kill Brevelan as well.
    Brevelan.
    His other self.
    He sat back on his haunches. The man rolled away and scrabbled up the slope. The other man was gone. His frantic cries echoed through the valley below as he slipped on the rough path.
    “The witchwoman! The witchwoman lives. She has sent the wolf to kill us all.”
    Darville forgot the men and his need to kill. Brevelan was calling him.
    He had defended Brevelan and sent the men fleeing. To show just how pleased he was with himself, he scooted downhill a few paces in mock pursuit. He stopped and bayed at his retreating quarry. The exercise burned some of the extra energy pounding through him. Then he bounded back to Brevelan’s side, tail thumping.
    Her foot invited him to sit on it. So he did. Her arm was within easy reach. He greeted her by taking her wrist, ever so gently, into his open mouth, even as he leaned his full weight into her.
    Brevelan.
    This was where he belonged.
     
    Tears sprang to Brevelan’s eyes. Darville’s love and sense of belonging washed over her. She welcomed the familiarity of his wolfish greeting. She needed the warm contact of his body pressed against hers. For a few moments longer she cherished the bond that held him close.
    “He is a man, Brevelan,” Jaylor gently reminded her. “And a prince.”
    “I know.” She choked out the words. A huge lump formed in her throat. Her body ached for the wolf to continue leaning into her. It was not to be.
    “Step away, Brevelan. I need to change him back.”
    “I know.” This time she couldn’t watch. She pulled her long braid over her shoulder and played with the bark fastening. The tendrils of escaping hair took her concentration. She loosed them, ran her fingers through the long strands. Deftly she rebraided the distinctive red hair.
    No matter where she went, its rare color stood out, identified her with Krej. She would always be known as a witchwoman, whether she had magic or not, just because of her hair.
    “When you have finished, give me your knife.” she commanded Jaylor.
    “Why?” He sounded startled.
    “I wish to cut off this braid. It’s cumbersome, dirty. If we are to travel the length and breadth of the kingdom in search of Shayla, I do not wish to be burdened.” She turned to stare at Jaylor, commanding him with her eyes.
    “No,” he returned flatly. Darville looked from one to the other, waiting for the magic that did not come.
    “It is my hair, my choice.”
    “No.” Jaylor took a step toward her.
    She wanted to back away from his advance. His eyes held her in place. She remembered the thin coil of magic he had used to connect them. But once he had read her thoughts, once she had known the pattern of his mind in hers, she had returned the magic and spoken to him without words.
    Something special bound her to him, just as she was bound to Darville.
    She couldn’t allow that to happen. She was destined to live her life alone. If she allowed herself to depend on these two men for comfort, companionship . . . love. . . .
    “Give me your knife.” She stiffened her resolve.
    “Brevelan.” He reached out an empty hand in entreaty. “Your hair is beautiful.” His words were soft. She strained to hear them.
    “Beautiful?”
    “You are beautiful, unique, special. Please leave it.”
    Of its own volition her hand came up to touch his fingertips. It was like touching his mind again. As their hands joined, they were connected by that same something that had allowed her to send him words without speaking. A swirl of bright red and blue and copper magic encased them. She stepped into the circle of his arms. His lips touched the top of her hair.
    The magic spun faster, tighter. He lifted her chin with one hand as the other held her against his broad chest. She raised up on tiptoe to be closer to him. Their lips touched. Jaylor deepened the kiss, merged with her, became one being with one mind, one idea, one goal.
    Gently, Jaylor raised his head. A finger traced her lips. Wonder filled them both.
    The magic died. As fast as it had sprung up, it faded. Deep inside herself, Brevelan felt the emptiness of its absence. She looked into Jaylor’s eyes and saw the same emotions. He looked deflated. She felt lonelier than ever.
    “You will not cut your hair.” Darville’s deep voice penetrated her abstraction. He