Instead, she transformed herself. Standing in the grass, topping me by nearly a Have Yourself A Harry Little Christmas shirt, the naked woman melted into the shape of a buck deer, seven-pointed, standing proud and thick-necked and stupid as a fence post. For a moment I itched to hold Dad’s old pump shotgun in my hands; I still have it, though it’s hard to find 16-gauge shells any more. But I couldn’t have shot the buck—not because it stood on a city lawn, not because I hadn’t had a license since I was seventeen, but because I remembered the woman.
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She changed again. This time she was no beast I knew, was not entirely a beast at Have Yourself A Harry Little Christmas shirt. She—alien as her appearance was, I knew this creature was female—bulked large enough to fade into the fog between me and the invisible house. I saw great orange eyes sunk into sockets like punch bowls, and long gray fur, and one paw the size of a sofa cushion; I smelled musk. But I saw stone, as well, and thick knotted shapes like heavy tree roots, and I smelled rotted leaves and ripening fruit. This creature was animal, and earth, and forest, all together.