Chapter 1
MarcMarc Spector looked behind him.
The buzzing, inconsistent lights and grimy brick walls of the dim sewer system made it hard to tell for sure, but somewhere farther down the tunnel, a silhouette stood.
Was that . . .
The lights blacked out for a second before coming back, but for a flash, Marc saw it clearly, as if the desert sun shone directly on it:
The imposing silhouette of a man, long cloak draped over thin limbs and staff in hand.
Plus a massive bird skull for a head.
Khonshu.
The Egyptian god of the moon wasn’t always the best—or most sincere—ally for Marc, but given that Marc had pledged to be the Moon Knight, avatar of Khonshu, well, they helped each other out of a lot of jams.
In this case, the bird skull turned his way, then Khonshu tapped his staff, causing an echo that Marc heard over his own pounding footsteps. Then the lamps flickered again and Khonshu disappeared, leaving only decaying infrastructure and skittering rats. Just the empty shadows of a sewer passage. A New York sewer passage, one that tracked right underneath Retrograde Sanitarium, where Marc had just led a daring, brutal escape: first breaking free from his cell, then recovering his things from storage and donning the Moon Knight suit, then liberating his friends from the clutches of Dr. Emmet and her oppressive guards and orderlies.
And now? Underground, on the way to freedom. Sanity versus insanity. New York versus ancient Egypt. One mind versus infinite possibilities.
Not that long ago, the love of Marc’s life told him that she needed to distance herself from him, from the life of violence that swarmed around him. He’d tried explaining to Marlene that the violence stemmed from the balance of everything in his head, of dealing with Steven Grant and Jake Lockley, of being pledged to serve Khonshu as the deity’s Fist. But the how and why didn’t matter to her.
She’d had enough. And as he dashed forward through the damp passageway, cape billowing behind him, he considered if maybe she was right.
Such was the life of Marc Spector. He never claimed it was an easy one.
“There they are!” a voice yelled, cutting through the thick air.
“No, no, no,” a woman’s voice said. Marc turned to see concerned lines framing the brown eyes and pursed lips of Gena Landers. Gena spun and shot a look behind Marc, her head now angled to catch shadows across her dark skin. “Frenchie, turn off the flashlight!”
“Non, Gena,” hissed Jean-Paul Duchamp, Marc’s longtime associate and sometimes helicopter pilot, known by most as Frenchie. “We are in a sewer. How else could we possibly see?”
“If we can’t see us, then they can’t see us,” Gena shot back. Frenchie cursed under his breath, a rapid-fire mix of French and English and possibly something else, and as he swung the flashlight, the beam crossed Marc’s body, causing a flicker of his reflection on the water to remind Marc of the single constant thing that summed up all of the certainty and uncertainty in his life:
Moon Knight.
White. Clear white, the kind that stood out against a dark night sky. Not camouflage, but a distinct and obvious look that sent a message to whoever saw it.
I’m coming for you.
White boots. A white, form-fitting carbonadium armored suit, complete with gauntlets. A white belt, where he stashed adamantium crescent darts—boomerang-like blades shaped like a crescent moon—and on the left side, his truncheon hung, an adaptable weapon that acted as nunchaku, bo staff, or grappling hook as needed.
Over all of that draped a cowl and cloak, centered by the unmistakable icon of a crescent moon across the chest. Under the cowl sat a white mask, blank except for the lines contoured to Marc’s face, but with two glowing white eyes, an intensity ready to pierce the darkness and lead the way through.
Move quickly, Marc, a voice roared in his head. Marc steadied himself, and the brilliance of his white eyes intensified as Khonshu’s voice spoke again, a deep-throated growl courtesy of an Egyptian god that only he heard—and sometimes, Marc even listened to him. Something has changed in this world. It’s out there. Elusive. I am not certain what it is, but you need to get to the surface now.
Marc whirled around to face his friends, the cape whipping out behind him. His fingers flexed and tightened their grip on the crescent darts, ready for whoever and whatever Dr. Emmet sent after them. But no, he wouldn’t need those now. Instead, he sheathed them—combat wasn’t the current solution.
They needed to escape.
“Gena’s right,” Marc said, and from afar, the voices shouted again, the light thump-thump-thump of rapid steps echoing off the sewer walls. “Look for my eyes. They’ll light the way. Follow me. We’re almost home.” Frenchie cut the flashlight right when Marc stepped forward, leaving only the glow from his mask’s eyes.
That was enough for his friends—and as he stepped, a whirl of images flew through his head, from Gena’s cozy Brooklyn diner to the endless city streets where he patrolled with a mask and cape. Just hours prior, Marc had promised that he’d get them back, all of them lamenting that they missed the constant din and occasional strange odors of the city.
Now he was going to make good on that promise.
He looked back at Gena and Frenchie and tapped the side of his mask; they both nodded, and he stepped forward, boots grinding into the path.
Other instincts soon kicked in, his senses opening up beyond the Moon Knight suit, experiences and skills coming all the way back from his days as a mercenary—or even as a soldier before that.
Behind them, footsteps and voices. Ahead, the faint rush of water followed by occasional drips. All around, the thick stench of sewer air, but also a draft. The lightest of airflow, and combined with the rumble overhead, Marc tracked the possibilities.
An escape.
“It’s not that far. There’s a way out. Just follow me.”
Marc moved with purpose, a momentum to his steps, his boots pounding the brick and cement beneath until it came within reach. He leapt, and his hand reached out to grab the side of a ladder. “New York City is just on the other side of that sewer grate,” he said, scaling up quickly until a free hand found the heavy flat side of a manhole cover. He pushed, flexing his arms and shoving with his palm until the cover budged, tipping out. One more hard go and it flipped on its side, opening them up to a new type of light.
Not the thin, unnatural light of a flashlight, but the roaring beam of a full moon watching over the city streets. Marc waited until the rumbles of cars passed into the distance, then hustled upward to breach the surface. He reached back, first pulling Gena out, then Frenchie. As his friends took in the thick, dirty air of the city, Marc pulled the manhole cover back and looked up at the clouds moving in—and with them, rain.
“You still miss New York, Gena?”
They ran quickly, ducking behind bus stops and sprinting between buildings. New York offered its best response, a light mist in the air becoming cascading sheets of rain, like the city itself wanted to challenge Moon Knight.
Or, perhaps, it offered sympathy, the only way it knew how: punishing amounts of rain, enough to provide cover for Marc’s glowing eyes and flowing cape.
They’d turned left, right, left again, and then started to make arbitrary decisions, the randomness of it seemingly enough to throw off Dr. Emmet’s security. Somewhere, probably within a one-mile radius, their pursuers kept searching, but safety approached with every passing second. Enough so that maybe they might find their way to The Other Place, where the tired seats and hot coffee of Gena’s restaurant might offer a reprieve, before planning their next move.
Light from above cascaded down, filling Marc’s body and mind as he moved with direct intention in his steps. “Khonshu,” he said quietly, “are we safe?”
Nothing is safe, Marc. I told you, something has changed.
“I need more specifics than ‘something.’ ”
“Marc,” Gena said, trotting to catch up with him, “who you talking to, honey?”
I cannot define it further. But something has changed. Your world is now . . .
. . . different. And not what it is supposed to be.
Marc groaned, loud enough that he knew Khonshu caught it. Egyptian god of the moon or not, Khonshu’s pettiness sometimes hit harder than his otherworldly abilities to cause an earthquake. Marc told himself not to go there, not to get into the recurring arguments about whether becoming Khonshu’s Fist was really better than the eternal peace of death.
“I was just going to say,” Marc said, his voice muffled through the mask. And maybe it was time to take off the Moon Knight business for now? “I think we’ve got enough distance from Emmet’s orderlies. Let’s take a minute to—”
“Hey!”
Copyright © 2024 by Mike Chen. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
