Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 926 & 927, November/December 2018

Krikon the Ghoul Hunter’s eyes adjust very slowly to the darkened room. His lids are slits to allow just a small amount of light, just enough to detect movement. If he opens his eyes wide, the hunted might catch a glint of moisture or might sense his gaze. Ghouls have hyper senses; they feel and see as we do, but better. Their sense of smell is sharper. They can detect motion as a cat does. They can feel movement in still air if a cricket grinds his legs together, if a spider drops from the ceiling to the floor.

Krikon is alone; his companion has stayed behind until he can ascertain safety. He hears her in the garage and curses soundlessly. The living room is clear. Krikon moves swiftly to the cracked bedroom door. The air within is thick with dust and something else. Krikon grasps the dagger at his waist. He strokes the hilt. A knife will be effective only if the ghoul is in corporeal form, but the knife makes him feel safe. He touches the gold cross at his neck. He touches his lips. He presses his hand flat against the door.

“Daniel?” The companion’s voice is sharp in Krikon’s ears, accustomed as they are to softness. He hears the door from the garage to the kitchen slam. The companion calls again, but Krikon ignores her. Females are useful in various ways, some of which Krikon does not yet understand. This female drives the car, prepares food, and tends to Krikon’s wounds, which are not infrequent. She provides companionship. But she does not understand the ghouls and how they hide and what they do. She says that if she refuses to believe in them, they cannot harm her.

Krikon moves around the room swiftly, touching surfaces, kneeling to check under the bed, feeling the lengths of the curtains up and down before he peeks behind them. This room has two closets; one for the male provider and another for the female. It is this larger one Krikon checks first, scanning the rows of purses displayed on white laminate shelves illuminated from below by tiny LED bulbs. He touches the cross at his neck and runs his hands up and down the divided canvas rack that holds dozens of shoes. They smell faintly of leather and feet, not an unpleasant odor, but not as pleasing as the perfume that wafts from the upper rail that holds jackets and blouses. The female provider’s closet is clear; the air is light and still. No ghouls.

As Krikon moves to the smaller closet, anticipating the warrior odor of leather and wool and spicy potpourri, the companion calls again. She is closer, and her voice is as sharp and shiny as the blade at Krikon’s waist.

“Daniel! There you are. You scared me.” Krikon turns to her, softly, softly, fingers to his lips. There may well be a ghoul in the male provider’s closet; he senses a fullness, a waiting, beyond the shut door. But the companion grips Krikon’s bicep in her slender hand. “Come on, Daniel. Lunch. Then you can look for zombies after. I’ll help you.”

Krikon responds with amused contempt. “Ghouls, woman,” he says. “There are no zombies; they aren’t real.”

The companion laughs. Her laughter is bright and clear and Krikon feels a fluttering in his stomach, quite against his will. This companion is his to protect; she is a female, and he is Krikon. It is not for her to mock him with her laughter and with her limpid thick-fringed eyes, but he betrays himself. He feels his lips curve into an unwilling smile. She is beautiful; that is the problem. When he fell, chasing a ghoul across the back patio, and tore the flesh of his knee, she knelt and held him until he was able to regain control of himself. She wisely ignored his angry tears. She cleaned the wound and bandaged it and then, quite unexpectedly, she knelt again and pressed her lips to the clean bandage. And Krikon knew then that he was real, but that Daniel was also real, and that if Krikon’s job was to protect and defend, it was Daniel’s role to grow to manhood as quickly as possible, in order to claim the companion as his own.

“Come on,” she says again. “We’ve got tekka maki and edamame and yogurt.” Krikon does not consume flesh, but he knows when the companion says “tekka” she means “kappa,” or cucumber. It is difficult for her to keep some things straight. Surprisingly, this does not annoy Krikon but further endears the companion to him. Krikon follows her to the kitchen and takes his place at the counter, only frowning at her suggestion that he might wash his hands.