Page 5 of Wynter

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.

Sure, he’s a food shifter, not an in-your-face ice block like me. But it’s not like I went all crazy the first time I ran into a troll. Or a Yeti. Or a ghost. I just stared. Politely. From a distance. Couldn’t Aurora just do the same?

I guess not, because she moves on from peek-a-boo to Turn Your Back on the Ice Block. She spins around, counts down slowly from five, shouts one, and spins around to find… you guessed it… ice block me. What did she expect?

This game is getting old, fast, and I struggle to shift back… while she struggles to accept, well, me. It takes a while, but then I finally feel ice running through my veins. Which isn’t as bad as it sounds. Quite nice, really.

I like thinking about ice. Cold, calming ice. Icebergs floating in the ocean. Frozen lakes glistening in the sunlight. The Silver Skates Ice Rink sparkling right after Jack Frost finishes another round on the Zamboni. And I didn’t shriek or play peek-a-boo the first time I met him, either.

I smile—internally, since I’m still a block of ice—and start to relax. Which is one of the signs that I should be able to shift back.

A few seconds later, I’m standing on two feet. My skin is a little cold and I still have ice on the brain. But my thoughts are as crisp as the cool winter air.

Aurora stares at me for a few seconds and then reclaims her seat. Doc’s seat. And Doc’s tea. “I’m Dr. Aurora Lyons, but you can just call me Aurora,” she introduces herself. Guess she’s going to pretend the little freak out didn’t happen. “I’m covering for Dr. Bernard. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Izaguirre. Or should I call you Xavi?”

There it is again. Mr. Iza Guir Ray. But hey, at least she got my first name right. Xavi with an H, like Havi.