I really wish I wasn’t the only shifter of my kind in Silver Springs. I’m as much of an oddity here as a werewolf would be among humans. And right now, I really wish I were human. Or a werewolf. Or literally any other supe.
Sure, the first time I shifted, I was over the fucking moon. Same with the third time. And the fifth. But the time I totally demolished my desk in the middle of class? Not so much. Ditto the time I hitchhiked and nearly took out an actual semi. And those were just the tip of the iceberg.
At least in Shifter Bay, there were protective measures in place. My desk got replaced with a beanbag chair. My bed with a nice, safe mattress. And I may have been one of the bigger shifters back home, but at least I didn’t feel like a freak. Okay, fine, not a complete freak.
Maybe my brother’s right. I should just pack my bags and head home. Probably would have by now, if it weren’t for a certain Cleanly Den witch named Zoe Wynter. A witch who has never looked at me the way I look at her.
I let out a sigh as I step onto the curb. At least there are wards in place in Silver Springs to make humans forget incidents involving magic. So I don’t have to worry about ending up in a research lab, or on the front page of the local paper. Unfortunately, the mere thought of the Silver Springs Herald makes my fingers tingle and my toes twitch. Both signs that I’m about to shift.
I break into a run. Race past a Yeti wearing a t-shirt in the dead of winter. Duck under a pink pixie in a parka with holes for wings. Jump over a grumpy orange cat dressed in a cloak and winter boots. I’m dodging supes left and right, but I have to get out of sight before it’s too late.
I don’t stop until I reach Dr. Bernard’s. The clinic is a small, one-story building, located in a secluded part of town. And the waiting room is empty. Doc likes to leave a good half hour between patients. Which I appreciate at moments like this.
I take deep breaths, inhaling the familiar lemony-fresh scent, and the urge to shift dissipates.
It’s not like I’ve never shifted in front of Doc. I just don’t want to do it before my session begins. And lose half of it trying to shift back. So I take one final deep breath, make my way down the hall, and knock on the office door.
“Come on in,” a cheerful, feminine voice calls out.
I start.
Not because Doc sounds uncharacteristically perky, but because he sounds like a she. A very young she. And nothing like the no-nonsense seventy-year-old man who reminds me of Granddad.
If I lived in a human town—or if I were back home in Shifter Bay—I would assume it was someone other than Doc. But here in Silver Springs, there are far more likely explanations.
A gag potion, for one, like the type they sell at Highway to Spells. I tried this hilarious brew once that made me sound like I’d been inhaling helium. And I’m sure there are other voice-changing potions, too. Not that Doc would take them before an appointment.
He might be a chameleon shifter, though, like the owner of Jewels Cafe. It’s not like we’ve ever discussed his species. Or maybe he just saw the cafe’s hilarious new Shiftocinno ad. The one with the animated bear, bunny, and wizard who sing to their princess until she shifts into a troll.
It’s been trending on Screech, and I snort as the catchy song plays in my head. Is it time to freshen up? Be someone else with every cup!
Not that Doc would choose to be someone else during work hours.
But maybe he was treating a dark witch, and she lashed out at him? It’s rumored that there’s a witch who lives in the forest and turns men into someone—or something—else.
I make a mental note to investigate her—cautiously, and from a distance. She would make for a great Herald article, assuming I still have a job come Thursday.
The possibility of losing my job triggers a wave of anxiety—followed by a renewed desire to shift. Which forces me to go through another set of deep-breathing exercises before I’m finally ready to turn the doorknob and step inside Doc’s office.
Doc is seated in his favorite chair—an old, brown leather recliner. The framed photo of his grandkids is on the walnut end table near his elbow. He’s drinking peppermint tea from his favorite mug. And he’s bundled up in the usual layer of blankets. He just doesn’t look like himself. At all.
Doc’s non-existent hair is curly and shoulder-length. His long, white beard has been replaced with smooth, dark skin. And his small reading glasses have transformed into large, studious ones. Plus, instead of an old man, he looks like a young woman.
It’s definitely unusual, but my questions about Doc’s new look can wait. I have a crisis on my hands.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Doc.” I flop backwards onto his couch and stare at the ceiling. “I’m already skating on thin ice at work, and now my boss wants me to write an article about the Cleanly Den thief. The Cleanly Den Thief! He basically wants me to accuse Zoe and her boss of committing robberies, even though we have no proof. I tried to tell him—”
“Mr. Izaguirre,” Doc’s newly feminine voice cuts me off. “I’m not Dr. Bernard.”
“What?” I sit up and spin around to face Doc. Or the woman sitting in his chair, under his blanket, sipping his tea, claiming not to be Doc. And if she hadn’t just completely butchered my last name, I might think my therapist was messing with me.
“I’m not Dr. Bernard,” she repeats, speaking more slowly this time.
She enunciates each word. Like she’s speaking to a little kid. Suddenly, I feel six-years-old again, and my first grade teacher is explaining that just because she sometimes shifts into a pillow, doesn’t mean she can’t see or hear us. A fact that I never understood until I started shifting myself.
And speaking of shifting, my fingers tingle. My toes twitch. And I jump to my feet. I race across the room, make it clear of the couch, and shift.
“What the turducken?” the woman—who I’m now one hundred percent sure isn’t Doc—screeches.
And I don’t blame her. I don’t.
In Silver Springs, supes normally shift into wolves. Or bears. Or even dragons. They don’t shift into giant blocks of ice.
First time Doc saw me shift, he freaked out, too. Dropped his favorite mug and spilled peppermint-scented tea all over the office floor.
At least his new mug is safely on the end table, so there’s that. But the woman’s shrieks are making my ice block ears hurt. Because, yes, ice blocks have ears. Eyes too. Invisible ones—all anyone else sees is ice—but that doesn’t mean they’re not there.
“This isn’t happening, Aurora,” the woman mutters, presumably to herself. Doubt she thinks my name is Aurora.
Then she shrieks again and covers her eyes. And uncovers them. And covers them again. Like she’s playing peek-a-boo. With a freaking block of ice. Over and over again.
And this is why I hate shifting in public.
I really don’t get why supes still act this way. It’s been almost a decade since my home town was discovered. Or, in my case, nine and a half years since a witch wandered into Shifter Bay. And yeah, we might have freaked out just a bit… and begged her to cast spell after spell. But it’s been ten years. Ten. Freaking. Years.
I may be one of the few Bayans who have ventured out to Silver Springs, but we’ve been on the supe news. A lot. Maybe more so at first and less so now, but we’re on the supernatural web, too. Like my brother, who posts exercise videos on Screech and occasionally shifts into a cake. Bet no one would scream and play peek-a-boo with a cake.