Chapter 1
At first glance, Marc Spector looked like an ordinary eight year old American boy. He had slightly tan skin that spoke of his mother’s Hispanic roots, curly brown hair, and chocolate eyes. He was a little on the short side, at only four feet nine inches tall, but his dad said he would grow in time. He was skinny also, not a trace of baby fat on him. He wears t-shirts and blue jeans, sneakers scuffed up from sports.
Marc likes the same things as every other American boy. He likes comics, sports, games and movies. His favorite team is the Chicago Cubs, his hometown team. He has a cap that he got when his dad took him to one of their home games, when he was five. Before the accident. When everyone was still happy and whole.
His favorite movie is Tomb Busters. It was the first movie he saw in the theaters; his dad took him for his sixth birthday. He had been happy then. They had been happy. He saw the movie four times in the theater, and he bought the movie on tape with his Haunkah money. He watched it until the tape skipped from wear.
Marc loves to read Captain America comic books. He doesn’t have many, only twelve of them. He mostly borrows them from the library, where his dad takes him. It used to be that his mom would take him, but that was before. Things were different now. He liked the comics because Captain America was a hero, but he had been an ordinary man once. Maybe one day Marc could be like him. Also, Captain America fought Nazzis. Nazzis were evil, and had killed his great grandparents.
Marc is Jewish. He’s an Ashkenazi Jew. His Dad’s parents had fled from France and settled in Chicago after the war. His Mother was Jewish now, but she had been born a Catholic. She converted so that she could marry his Dad. He goes to the synagogue with his dad, who is the Rabi there. Marc studied Hebrew and the Torah, and speaks Yiddish with his Dad.
But, despite his outward appearances, Marc is not your average American boy. He is not average in any shape or form. You see, Marc was not one person, but three. The doctors had a fancy name for it, Dissociative Identity Disorder. They said that only Marc was real, that the others were just his imagination. They gave him pills, sent him to therapy, even subjected him to shock therapy once. But Marc never let them go, he never gave up.
The others were named Steven and Jake. They were his brothers, his friends. Steven Grant was everything good. He was optimistic, smart, kind and funny, and he spoke with a British accent. Steven loved Egypt, and was fascinated with ancient Egypt. Steven was the reason there was a small shrine of sorts on their desk. The shrine included a small plastic pyramid, a scarab drawing, a few magazine pictures of ancient artifacts, and a six inch figure of Khonshu the God of the moon and protector of the travelers of the Night. Marc always fought to protect him, to shield him from the evils of the world.
Jake Lockley was a protector through and through. He shielded Marc and Steven when everything got too much, when even Marc couldn’t take it anymore. Jake only spoke Spanish, and he was never afraid to get his hands dirty. Jake wore a cap and gloves, and tried to hide himself away. He was strong and brave, but he hated attention.
Steven and Jake were born after the accident a year and a half ago. Marc had only been six and a half years old when the incident occurred. When he and his five year old brother Roro went to play in the cave. When it started raining, Marc told Roro that it was fine, they were fine. When the cave flooded, when the waters rushed up, quickly overtaking the two little boys. When Roro slipped under the water, and didn’t come back. When Marc hadn’t been strong enough to save him, to hold him above the water, to keep him alive. When Marc slipped under the water, his strength sapped.
Marc would later learn that his father and two neighbor men had gone to the cave to fetch him and his brother when it started raining. That he had been pulled out by the neighbor, who brought him back with CPR. He was rushed to the hospital, where he stayed for a week. He was treated for hypothermia, and a mild case of pneumonia from breathing in the water. It wasn’t until he was released that Marc learned that while his Father had pulled Roro out, it had been too late. That he had tried CPR. That he held him crying until the firefighters pulled him off.
His family had delayed Roro’s Shiva until Marc was home. So that Marc could mourn his brother, they said. So that he could say goodbye. But Marc wasn’t ready for that. He was still tired, still sick from the pneumonia. His mother was grief stricken. In her grief, she blames Marc. She screams at him, tells him it’s his fault Roro is dead. That it should have been him, and he has no right to be here at his Shiva. Marc retreats to his room, tears streaming down his face. His Mother drinks until she stops feeling.
Not long after this night, Marc begins to notice that he is not alone. He hears them, in his mind. Sometimes they come out and take the stress away for him. He was a little scared at first; only crazy people heard voices. But the more he came to know them the more he realized that they were not voices, they were people. They just happened to share a body with him.
With the death of his brother, Marc gained two more in Steven and Jake. but their lives were not easy. Something in their mother snapped after Roro died. Where she had once been loving and kind, she now was cold and harsh. Her hugs became slaps. Her kind words were now hate filled barbs. She constantly reminded them that it was their fault, their fault that Roro was gone, that she was now like this. She made their life a living hell.
—--
He knew that his son had gone through hell that day. Elias had sat at his bedside in the hospital, sat with him while the fever from the pneumonia ravaged his body. While he cried out, and apologize. Said that he was sorry, that it was his fault. That he hadn’t been strong enough. That it was his fault Roro was gone. The doctors said that he had something called survivor’s guilt. Elias was no stranger to guilt. He had guilt. What if he had gone with the boys that day, or made them stay home. Wendy had guilt, for she hated that one of her children lived and the other died.
Elias knew that his wife was having some issues. He knew that she blamed Marc for the accident that took their youngest son from them. It wasn’t fair, Elias knew that. It was just a tragic accident and they had been lucky to not lose both their boys that day. But Wendy, she was grieving. And Elias understood that, for he was grieving too.
The whole family was wracked with guilt, and pain. They all cried. Marc cried for his lost brother, his friend. Elias cried for the child he lost, and the pain his remaining one felt. Wendy cried, but she cried for her lost child only. Roro had been her baby. He had been born two months premature, and weighed only two pounds. The doctors had said that he wouldn’t make it, or that he would have severe impairments if he did. But he was a warrior, and he lived. He persevered, with no impairments or issues to show for his rough start to life. Elias knew that it killed Wendy to lose Roro after his miraculous recovery. And he knew that Wendy could not bear to be around Marc right now, that it pained her, that she was mad at him, as irrational as it was. So he did what he could to make his son’s life a little bit easier.
Elias became the primary caretaker for his son. He made him his meals, took him to school, to his many doctor’s appointments. His poor boy had not come out of that cave unscathed. His mind had been fractured, splintered to deal with the pain. Some days he did not remember his name, referring to himself as ‘Jake’ or ‘Steven’. He had mood swings, going from quite to explosive anger. Some days he refused to speak English, and only spoke Spanish. The doctors had a name for it, but Elias never remembered it. All he knew is that some days his son was not his son, and on those days, his wife could not stand him.
Wendy, she would throw insults and cruel words at their son. Call him a murderer. Say that he should have been the one to drown. Elias knew that her actions were harmful for his son, that they made his fragile mindset worse, so he did his best to keep his son away from her. He would take Marc to school in the mornings, and go to the park after school let out. Once the sun set, they would go home, have dinner, and Marc would take a bath and go to bed for the night. He would do his homework, read a little, and go to sleep. On the weekends the two would rise early and go to Elias’s synagogue, only to return at dinner time.
It worked. It kept Marc away from Wendy, away from her hurtful words. Of course, Elias did not know that Wendy would slip away in the night, to Marc’s room. That she would slap him, hit him, cut him. That she made him suffer, made him feel her pain, every night while Elias slept in their bed.
Elias never thought that his wife would go that far. He never thought that she would lay a hand on their son. He didn't see the bruises and cuts, hidden by their clothes. He didn’t see them cry themselves to sleep, knowing that their mother would wake them in a few short hours. Elias did not see the harm that his wife laid on their son. Or, perhaps, Elias did not want to see. He too was grieving. He too had lost a son. Perhaps he did see what Wendy was doing, and the fear of having his family further fractured kept him from acting. Had him keeping his head in the sand. Either way, his ignorance would cost him everything.
This ignorance is what led Elias to decide that his son would be ok left alone with Wendy, just for a day and a night. Elias had been asked to perform the wedding of one of his childhood friends. Normally, he would just bring Marc, but the wedding was five hours away in Cleveland, Ohio and Marc was getting over a cold. Elias was taking a redeye there and back, and planes are terrible when you have clogged sinuses and ears. No, it would be best for Marc to stay home.
Elias walked into his son’s room. Marc kept his room neat. He had gray walls, a blue rug, and a single window looking out to the road. Under that window was a desk, with a little collection of Egyptian tokens, pencils, and comics. His twin bed had star and moon sheets, perfectly made. Matching moon and star curtains covered his window, blocking out the light from the street below.It was oddly clean for a child’s room, no toys laying about, clothes all tucked into their drawer.
Marc sat cross legged on his bed, reading a dog eared copy of The Hardy Boys. Elias cleared his throat to get his son’s attention. Marc looked up at him with a smile. “Tate!’ he said, voice still sounding congested.
“Marc, you look better, though you still sound stuffy. How are you feeling?” he asked his son as he sat next to him on the bed.
“Stuffy, and my ears are achy, Tate”
“Ahh, but no more fever, that is good my zun. Marc, remember my friends, Rachel and Thomas? The ones who live in Cleveland?” The boy nodded. “They are getting married, and asked that I be their Rabbi. Tonight, I will be going to their wedding and I will be gone for all of Sunday and Sunday night. I won’t be back until Monday morning Marc.”
Marc looked at his father with excitement, not quite grasping what he was saying. “Oh, wow, that will be so awesome! I've never been on a plane, and I haven't seen Aunt Rachel or Uncle Thomas in so long! We’re going to have so much fun Tate!”
Elias looked at his son, sad. “Marc, I'm sorry, but you can’t come with me. You're sick and a plane ride would be very bad for your ears. You have to stay home with your Mother.”
Marc’s face fell. He was staying home? With his Mother? But it wasn’t safe! She would hurt them. She hurt them enough during the night, who knew how much she would hurt them over a 24 hour period. “But, Mother” he said quietly.
Elias knew his son feared Wendy. He had perhaps fostered that fear by removing Marc from his mother. However, she was his Mother, and Marc would be able to live with her for a day and a half. He couldn’t be with Elias all the time. Perhaps this time together was what Wendy and Marc needed, to start healing.
“It will be fine Marc. The two of you could use some time alone, some time to bond. This will be good for you. I’ll bring you back a surprise, OK?” Elias patted his son on the back and stood up. “I’ll be back before you even know it. Now I must go pack. The cab is going to be here in an hour to take me to the airport.”
“I love you Tate.” Marc whispered, his eyes watery with unshed tears.
“And I love you Zun” Elias said as he walked out the door. Little did Elias know those would be the last words that he would ever say to his son.
An hour later Marc stood at his desk and looked out of his window. A taxi sat idle in front of their house, and his Father loaded his bag into the trunk and shut it. He then climbed in the back of the taxi. The taxi drove away, taking Marc’s safety with it.
“Where did Dad go?” Steven whispered to Marc. Marc frowned. Now was not the time for Steven to be awake, not when their Mother was sure to be on the warpath. Steven was too kind.
“Papi had to go to a wedding. We must be quiet, like a raton, ci?” Jake chimed in. Good, Jake was always good to have around when things got tough. And it was likely going to get tough today. “We must be quiet so that Madre does not notice us.”
“Jake’s right. Quiet, and maybe she won’t even remember that we’re here. We’ll take care of you Steven.” Marc said to his brothers. He was lucky he had figured out how to talk to them in his mind. When they first showed up, he could only talk to them if he talked out loud. That had led to him being sent to doctors, who gave him meds, and shocked him in the name of medicine. Once he figured out how to talk to them silently, he was able to fool the doctors more easily so that the treatments stopped. Now he only had to endure therapy, where they made him talk, and they told him that his brothers weren't real.
Marc curled up on his bed. He tried to make himself small, and quiet. He did not read, he did not move. He barely even spoke to his brothers, too afraid that he would accidentally make a sound. All was well for an hour, the only sound from Marc’s room the quiet ticking of his clock. We can do this. I can do this. Marc said to his brothers. Marc likely would have been right. They probably could have stayed out of Wendy’s way. She was already drunk, if they were quiet enough she would have forgotten that they were even there. Unfortunately, the boys had a cold. Their nose was itchy. They had to sneeze. Marc tried to hold it in, he really did. But in the end, a single sneeze slipped out.
“Oh no. Do you think…?” Steven wondered.
Footsteps could be heard coming up the stairs. Wendy was coming to their room. “Stupid, dumb kid. Murdered my baby. See if he likes it.” Wendy ranted as she stormed to their door. Her voice was slurred, indicating that she was drunk. She was not a nice drunk.
“Don’t watch Steven. Me and Jake got this” Marc told his gentle brother. He knew his Mother would not go easy on them, not when their Father wasn’t there to protect them. He felt Steven fade into the background. It was just him and Jake now. He could see Wendy’s shadow under his door.
His door was thrown open, hard enough that a hole was punched in his wall. She was mad, madder than he had ever seen her. She had a half empty bottle of vodka in one hand and a…
“Dios. She has a knife. She’s gonna kill us.”
She had slapped them, hit them, even cut them once or twice with a nail file. But to bring a chef’s knife to their room? Jake was right. They were not going to make it out of this.
“You stupid freak. Shoulda been you who drowned, not my little baby. Gonna make things right, gonna make it right, stupid freak.” Wendy screamed at them. She then threw the vodka bottle at their head. It broke, slicing open Marc’s scalp.
“Please” Marc whispered.
Wendy grabbed their arm, and yanked them off the bed, throwing them onto the ground. Marc felt his shoulder wretch out of its socket. She stomped on their arm, and Marc heard a sickening crack. She kicked them in their stomach, their head, and their ribs. She slashes their arms with the knife. It hurt so much. Steven jolted awake from the pain, confused and upset. Jake pushed forward knocking Marc out of control of the body.He needed to protect them, to shield them. He could do this. He had to do this.
Jake fought through the pain and tried to drag himself to their desk. If he could just make it to the window, perhaps he could get the attention of someone outside. He wasn’t strong enough to fight her off, she was easily three times his size. He couldn’t make a run for a phone, at some point she had broken one of his legs with her kicks. This was his best chance at survival. “I’ll save us," he said to Marc and the now awake Steven.
Wendy saw the boy trying to get up, trying to move. She grabbed the nearest thing to her, a shoe of Marc’s. She threw it at the boy, but missed in her anger. The shoe instead landed among Steven’s little shrine, knocking it to the ground. She then threw the only thing she still held- the knife. This time her aim was true, and the knife sinks into their chest. She rips it out, and stabs them twice more, before dropping the knife and walking out of the room.
Jake knows that this is it. There is so much blood, and his vision is going gray. The pain is kind of fading, and he feels floaty. He feels something next to his hand, and holds onto it. “Love you Marc. Love you Steven”
“Love you Jake. Love you Marc”
“Love you Steven. Love you Jake”
The three boys clung to each in their mindspace, knowing that at least they would have each other in their final moments. They didn’t think it would be long now, it was getting hard to breathe.
Jake felt his hand warm up, the one holding the object. He figures he’s probably losing feeling in it. Gentle gusts of wind brushed over them, feeling cold on their blood soaked skin. They feel as though there is someone else in the room with them. Jake pries his eyes open, and sees an impossibly tall man kneeling next to him. The man peers at him not with eyes, but with the empty eye sockets of a bird’s skull. He wears a bright white suit made of mummy bandages, a flowing cloak, golden arm bracers, and a golden broad collar around his neck. In his taloned hand he clutched a staff that was topped with a golden crescent moon.
“Khonshu” Steven provided weakly.
“Such a shame. So young and so full of life yet. Struck down by the one who should have protected you. But don’t worry little moon, I can protect you.” The god spoke to them, his voice powerful and gentle at the same time. He reached his free hand down and cupped the boys head, gently stroking their hair. “Do you wish to live my little moon?”
The god seemed to be offering them a chance. Jake wasn’t sure why he believed that this was happening, he just did. Jake wanted to live, to say yes, but the others also had a say.
“Guys, do you agree?” He asked his brothers.
“Absolutely” Marc quickly replied.
“Yes!” Steven cried. He didn’t want to die.
Jake summoned what little strength he had, and looked at the god. “Yes” he whispered.
“You choose life, my little moon. Do you vow to protect the travelers of the night and bring my vengeance against those who would do them harm?”
“Yes”
“Then take my hand and rise. Rise again as my fist of vengeance, and as my moon knight.” The god slid his hand into theirs. The boys could feel the pain fading, their bones knitting together, their skin closing up. They could feel themselves becoming well once more.
“Sleep my little moons. I will take you from this place.” Khonshu scooped his little avatar into his arms and cradled him close. With one last look at the room, he summoned a portal and walked out of the room. His little avatars would never know the kind of pain this home had brought them, never again.
—--
Elias came home to find his wife sitting on the couch. She clutched a bottle of whiskey, and there were several empty bottles surrounding her. More disturbing was the fact that her clothes and skin were covered in dried blood. "Wendy, are you OK, is Marc OK?" he asked in fear.
The drunk woman looked at him, her eyes cold. "I'm jush fine. Da Fweaks taken care of." She slurred. Elias walked up to her. She was even bloodier up close and he could see scrapes on her knuckles as though she had punched something. Or someone.
Elias grabbed Wendy by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him."What did you do Wendy. WHAT DID YOU DO?" Elias screamed, fear palpable in his voice. Wendy didn’t answer, she instead took a gulp of whiskey.
Forgetting about his wife, Elias sprinted up the stairs to his son’s room. He could see that the door was wide open. “Marc? MARC. Come on zun, answer me.” The room was quiet. Marc did not answer him, did not call out for his Tate. Elias knew deep down that whatever waited for him in that room was not going to be good. His only hope was that his son was alive.
With shaky legs and a prayer in his heart, Elias walked into the room. He was greeted by what could only be described as a crime scene. Broken glass, books and knick knacks on the floor, and the blood. So much blood, the blood was pooled by the desk, still damp looking. Splatters decorated the walls and bed, like a sick modern art.
Elias knew, even without seeing his boy, that his son was gone. In a daze, he stumbled out of the room and into the master. He picked up the phone, and dialed three numbers without thinking, 911.
A female voice answered. “911, what’s your emergency?”
Elias swallowed, voice stuck. “I…I think I need to report a murder. I think my wife, I think she, my son. There’s so much blood.” Elias could not remember the rest of the conversation with the operator. But the police were dispatched, along with EMS and firefighters. The neighbors stood outside and watched as Wendy was taken away in the back of a police car, as a team of crime scene investigators entered the house. They watched paramedics take Elias to the hospital, where he was treated for shock.
Police never did find Marc, but they said with the amount of blood in the room, there was no way a little boy like him had lived. Wendy confessed to the murder, but never said what she did with her son, only saying that he got what he deserved. The case didn’t go to trial, Wendy’s lawyer convinced her that it was best if she plead guilty. She was sentenced to 35 years in a maximum security prison, without the chance of parole. Wendy did not fare well in prison, her already frail mental health only grew worse. She ended up taking her own life only two years into her prison sentence.
Elias filed for divorce before Wendy even pleaded guilty. He moved to Cleavland, where he was close to friends. In Cleveland, he found a new Synagogue, and continued on as a Rabbi. He also started taking classes, learning how to tell if a child was in danger. He volunteered at the local youth shelter, and he quickly became a person that children came to, that they confided in.
Three years after Marc’s death, Elias took the next step in helping children and became a registered foster parent. He took in the kids that no one else wanted. The abused, sickly, the angry ones. He helped them, he made their lives better. Eight years after Marc’s death Elias welcomed a six year old girl named Sasha into his home. He was her tenth foster home in six years. Her mom was a crackhead, and Sasha had been born addicted. This made her cry, and her druggie mom did not have the patience for her. She was thrown to the ground at a week old by her mom, a victim of shaken baby syndrome. Sasha had limited speech, and couldn’t walk. But she was a ray of sunshine, happy and bubbly. And Elias was absolutely smitten with her. Nine years after he buried his son Marc, ten and a half after he buried his Roro, Elias gained a daughter. He adopted Sasha, and he vowed to protect her with his life.
—---
Khonshu stepped out of the portal and into the antechamber of the gods, deep within the great pyramid of Giza. Presently, he was the only god in the chamber, however he knew that would soon change. The others would sense his presence and come to see why he was there.
Khonshu shifted his avatar so that he could hold him with one hand. The child was shivering. He unclasped his cloak and draped it over his slumbering avatar, before shifting the child into a more comfortable position. Behind him, he heard the familiar sound of portals opening. He sensed Osiris, Isis, Tefnut, Hathor, and Horus. Their presence was strong; they must have decided to come in person rather than through their avatars.
Osiris spoke first, in his typical booming voice.“Khonshu, why-”
“Shhh! Be quiet, you’ll wake him!” He snapped at the other god. His avatar had had a long day and needed his rest. He would not have Osiris wake him up.
“Wake up who, Khonshu, dear?” Hathor asked in her much quieter voice. She walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“My avatar. He needs rest.”
With this, Khonshu turned to face his friend and the other gods. He was careful not to wake his little moon, who was snuggled into his chest.
“Khonshu. Why do you have a child?” Isis asked him. He had said his avatar needed rest, and yet he was holding a child. Surely he hadn’t? “Khonshu, is that your avatar?”
Khonshu nodded and glanced up at Isis. “It was the only way to save my little moon. His mother beat him to death, left him to die alone in a pool of blood. He lay there clutching my idol, with only his aspects for comfort-”
“Aspects?” Horus questioned him pointedly. It was extremely rare for humans to have aspects, like his little moon did.
“Yes. My little moon is like Ra. He is three souls in one body, all in perfect harmony. My little Warrior, My little Scholar, My little Shield. I felt them calling to me in their last moments, and I was not going to stand aside while they perished. The only way to save them was to make them my avatar, young as they may be. It was that or violate one of our fundamental laws and raise the dead and I did not want to give you any more reason to imprison me in stone. Who would look after my little moon then?”
Osiris studied Khonshu. The other god was clearly attached to the child, Osiris might even say he was behaving in a parental way. It was true, they didn’t take children as avatars, but there was no law against it. It was merely taboo. An avatar was bound to their god for life, and they were duty sworn to serve their god. They weren't slaves, rather they had a sacred duty to see that their god’s principles were carried out. It’s part of the reason many avatars had careers that closely aligned with their god’s traits. His own avatar Selim, was a lawyer, a prosecutor. Placing such a burden on a child was too much. And Khonshu, his avatars had a violent duty. They were often police officers or vigilantes, working to protect the travelers of the night.
“How do you propose a child be your fist, Khonshu?” He needed to know. He needed to know that Khonshu was not going to harm that child.
“He won’t be my fist, at least not until he is of age. Until then, he can fulfill one of my other duties. I am, after all, the Pathfinder, the Traveler, and the Embracer. Not to mention the God of the Moon. I am sure one of these will be safe for him to work with.”
Osiris nodded. Khonshu was correct. He did have other, safer aspects, he just seldom had his avatars carry out the duties of those aspects. Khonshu would be good for the boy, and from the looks of things, the boy would be good for Khonshu.
“I do, however, need assistance. As my avatar is but a child, and his home is no longer suitable, I need assistance in finding somewhere for him to live. I assume that I cannot raise him in the Overvoid.”
Ahh, there it was. Osiris knew that there was something that Khonshu needed. At least he had thought to ask for help, and not just ran head first into things like he usually did. This was progress for the avian god.
“If I may, I have been communicating events to my Yatzil in anticipation of this. She is more than willing to take the child in, and raise him. She will be kind to him, Khonshu. And she will understand him, what with her being an avatar. She also says that you would always be welcome in her home.” Hathor offered her friend a solution that she hoped he would take.
Khonshu lifted his head and looked at his old friend. This was more than he had hoped for. He had feared that he would have to place his avatar in a foster home, or worse an orphanage. But for him to grow up with the avatar of his friend? That was beyond ideal. Yatzil was known as a kind woman, she was gentle and fun loving. She had been with Hathor since she turned 19, and seven years later she had become one of Hathor’s favorites. She would be so good for his little moon.
“That would be agreeable.” He told Hathor. The goddess smiled at him.
“Then let us bring him to his new home.” She opened a portal to her Avatar’s home and beckoned Khonshu through. Khonshu looked down at his little moon and preened. You’ll never suffer again. He promised them.