Page 122 of Resurgent

I hate that he’s right, but he is. Morphing’s never been about forcing my body into a new shape. The harder I try to manipulate every individual feature, the more sluggish—and faulty—the transformation becomes.

The trick is knowing what I want before I move.

I take a breath.

Hair: Red. Back. Blonde. Back. Short. Back.

I barely register the changes now.

“Height.”

I stretch upward, the world dropping slightly beneath me as my body lengthens, my bones shifting with an uncomfortable pressure through my spine.

Six feet. Hold and I wonder what it would be like to be this height in a grocery store when the last can is pushed just a little too far back on the shelf.

“Focus.”

Back to my usual height.

Six-two. Back.

“Faster.”

“That was fast!”

His laughter fills my head. “It was. Now make yourself as small as a dog.”

I shake my head, trying not to smile. “Aww do you need a friend to play with?”

His growl is immediate and completely half-hearted.

“Oh come on, you walked into that one!”

By the time Tyr tells me to stop, I'm breathing harder, though not nearly as hard as my first few times practicing again.

The warm-up has a way of working every brain muscle and leaving me feeling as though my mind has been scrubbed, every unnecessary thought stripped away until I’m left with just me, my body, the magic, and Tyr.

“Get ready,” he says.

“Ready. Give me someone!”

There’s a pause, then—

Matt.

I grin.

Too easy.

I picture Matt exactly as I know him: broad shoulders, dirty-blond hair, strong jaw. Even his shit-eating grin…and then I let the magic take over.

My bones shift, shoulders broaden, hair shortens, and my face rearranges itself with only a slight tingle.

I look down at my hands—no, Matt's hands.

“Perfect.”

I shift back, loving this part of our practice. “Again.”