T. Kingfisher Summer in Orcus


“You could flip that cage over if you wanted,” he said to the wolf. “One paw in that gap, and I don’t think it would stand for a moment. But you haven’t and you aren’t touching it, and the bars are made of silver…”

The wolf looked at the sky.

“You’re a were-wolf, aren’t you?” said Summer.

“No,” said the wolf. “I am a wolf and was born a wolf and will be a wolf until I die. I am a were-house.”

“A warehouse?”

The wolf sighed. “No. A were-house. I am a wolf by day, and by night I turn into a rather pleasant cottage with white curtains.”

A great deal of Summer’s fear evaporated and she folded her arms and said, very grimly, “This is a pun, isn’t it?”

“Only by accident, I assure you,” said the wolf. “We wolves are prone to such maladies. A cousin of mine is a were-library, and another turns into a very large skylark on solstices.” He scuffed at the ground with his paw. “I believe the hunter meant to trap me and put a silver chain through my tongue and when I change tonight, I will be trapped in that form forever and can be sold on the real estate market.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” said Reginald. “Wouldn’t turn a rat over to the house-hunters.” He looked at Summer. “What do you think?”

[..]
“But how did you come to be a were-house, anyway?” she asked.

“Indeed!” said Reginald. “Were you bitten by a hinge or cursed by a hearth-witch?”

“Oh, that.” Glorious stretched hugely and yawned, showing a vast pink gullet. “I went down to the stream where the houses drink, and drank there under the full moon. You could probably do so without taking harm, but wolves are prone to metamorphic instability, and so what with one thing and another…” He shrugged. “It’s not so bad. Houses aren’t hungry, and most of the necessary business of life can be accomplished during the day.”

“I didn’t know houses had to drink,” said Summer.

“They get thirsty on the long migrations,” said Glorious.

“It’s a magnificent sight from overhead,” added Reginald. “A hundred houses in a herd, stampeding across the savannah, the big bulls slashing at each other with their rain-gutters…”

Summer was very suspicious that they were making fun of her, but then she thought of Baba Yaga’s house, walking about on enormous bird feet. Perhaps the house had come from this world initially.

“Are all houses wild here?” she asked. “Do people ever build them?”

“Oh, well,” said Reginald. “You can build them. It’s a bit shabby, but of course there isn’t always a well-grown warehouse—begging your pardon, Glorious—about when you need a place to store the potatoes.” He flitted his wings. “And the big manor houses are almost all gone, from overhunting. You can only get them from house-herders now, and they’re never as good as the wild ones.”