Light Dragons 02 - The Unbearable Lightness of Dragons

disgorging a handful of shoppers from Riga proper. I discounted the few men who marched past with backpacks or briefcases and eyed the women with interest. Most of them carried shopping bags, and some had small children in tow. A few lanky teens giggled at each other as they hunkered over their cell phones, texting like crazy. The last person off the train was a buxom woman a few inches taller than me, with porcelain skin and dark brown hair to her waist, streaked with warm amber lights that shone in the sun as she paused on the platform, glancing around curiously.
    I stood up. “Maura?”
    She turned to me with a half smile. “Yes. You must be Ysolde. It’s an honor to meet you.”
    She didn’t offer her hand, but I knew that many people in the Otherworld preferred not to be touched, given their sensitivity to things like reading thoughts.
    “I don’t know how much of an honor meeting me can give, but I appreciate the sentiment.” I studied her for a moment while she studied me. Her eyes were a light brown flecked with gold and black, and odd little red lights that hinted of her dragon father. She was very fair-skinned, but had a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She looked to be in her early thirties, was on the plump side, and appeared just about as far from my idea of someone who raised spirits as I could imagine.
    She laughed, and for a moment I thought she’d read my mind. “I don’t look anything like you imagined, do I?”
    “I’m sorry.” My cheeks heated. “Was I gawking? I didn’t mean to be rude, but somehow I imagined someone who raised spirits to look . . . well . . .”
    “More Goth?” she said, still laughing. “Dark and scary and mysterious? Not like Suzy Homemaker, right? It’s the curse of my maternal genes. My mother’s skipped me and I got my grandmother’s, instead. Nanna was from Scandinavia and was as round as she was short. I assure you that despite my appearance, I’m fully trained as a Summoner. And speaking of that, I don’t mean to rush you, but we’d better get started if we want to have a good chance of locating Constantine Norka before nightfall. Do you have a car?”
    “Yes, I do. It’s not far to the remains of Dauva.”
    “Oh, good. Can I drop off my bags at the hotel first?”
    “Of course.”
    It took us another half hour to swing by the hotel and leave off her things, let her change into clothing more suited to poking around in the forest, and gather up the items she needed to draw a summoning circle. I watched the clock warily, worrying that Thala would finish opening up the lair, which would mean Baltic would come looking for me.
    “So are you out here by yourself?” Maura asked when we were finally on our way to the forest, her backpack of summoning tools sitting between our seats. “Or is your mate here?”
    “No,” I lied, uncomfortable about doing so, but unwilling to expose Baltic to possible sources of danger. I decided to hedge my bets. “But I’m not alone. His lieutenant is here with me.”
    “Ah. I don’t suppose he has any idea where to look for Constantine’s spirit?”
    “She’s female, and no, I don’t believe she does, but that really doesn’t matter, because I think I’ve found the spot where he was slain.”
    “Great. That ought to make things much easier,” she said with confidence that I found reassuring.
    I pulled off the road at the entry point to the forest, deciding the time had come to do a little gentle probing on the issue of the ouroboros dragons. “So . . . how long have you been doing this?”
    She followed me into the forest, pursing her lips as she thought. “About eighty years. Summoners are born, not made, so I really didn’t have much of a choice, if you know what I mean. Mom discovered that was where my talents lay, and sent me off to be trained properly.”
    “Ah. You’re not involved with your father’s family at all?”
    “No.” She slid me a curious glance. “As I said, he was killed by the wyvern after she kicked him out of the sept, so I don’t feel like I have to make overly nice to the red dragons.”
    A telling statement, and yet one with which I could sympathize.
    “You’re technically ouroboros, then. So are we. I don’t particularly like being separated from the weyr. It makes me feel . . . disjointed.”
    “But Baltic has a new sept, doesn’t he?” she asked as we skirted a minute, murky black pond.
    I wondered how she’d heard that if she didn’t stay