Chapter Text
Pulse. Pound. In. Malim moving one in one in one with the space between stars, stretching him apart, pulse, pound, in, waves, waves, pulse, pound, in, the darkness wrapping around his waist, pulse, pound, in. Malim is filled, filled with starlight, from the base of his spine to his crown, pulse, pound, in, starlight pushing, pushing, filling, his fingertips tingle and Malim—
Expands.
So many little Malim-particles. Malim-dust. Malim-in-all-things and all-things-in-Malim, Malim contracts.
He stands, naked, at the edge of dawn above and below and around. Endless streaks of yellow and pink. Dawn-refracted, forever-dawn. Before him stands the human-shaped entity who calls himself Rosco, night sky patterned across his surface. He speaks, no mouth, no face, only endless dark and starshine between pressures, “Malim. You little fool.”
Malim says, “What am I a fool about now?”
The entity who calls himself Rosco walks up to him, across the dawn, and Malim feels the cold and the burning and the pressure emanating, and Rosco says, “You’ve let something in. I warned you about keeping up with your wards.”
Malim sighs. “I was tired. I work two jobs, you know that. I fell asleep at my desk before I could burn the mullein and yarrow bundles.”
The entity who calls himself Rosco takes Malim’s chin. Looks into Malim’s eyes with no eyes of his own. But Malim can feel the weight of his gaze. Rosco says, “Wake up.”
Malim opened his eyes and sat up in his desk chair with a gasp. It’s morning. He checked the time on his phone. 6:23am. Sunrise. He rubbed his eyes and cast about the apartment with his mind. Something was wrong. He sat very still, closed his eyes, and scanned the apartment again. There was a bulk at the corner of the room. It felt spiky. The texture was harsh. As the child of a Djinni, Malim ran hot. But his heat wasn’t cloying and damp, wasn’t like the breath of an ill person. His own heat was dry, straightforward. Malim opened his eyes and called out to it, “Are you here to cause trouble? If so, leave.”
Rosco’s voice resonated in his head. That’s a stupid question, Malim. Kick it out.
Malim sighed and thought back, What if it needs help? I’m trying to be fair.
Malim could feel Rosco rolling his eyes. Rosco said, Kick it out before it causes trouble.
Before Malim could argue, his vision went white. An ice-pick point headache radiated from the middle of his forehead. He hissed, clutching his head.
The spirit said, Work with me. I can make you strong.
Malim could feel Rosco’s anger, though not entirely directed at him. Are you gonna evoke me or not? You don’t listen to me. Raise your shields and kick. It. Out.
Malim blinked rapidly and tried to focus as the spirit trudged closer. A sticky, tar-like thing. Dragged sludge across the floor. That was going to be a bitch to get rid of. He called up his mental shields, a bonfire around him, consuming and destructive. Then he slipped his hand under his shirt to pull out a pendant, a wooden circle he had made with wires in the shape of a seven-pointed star, symbols for fire and air carved on the surface of the ring. He whispered Rosco’s name, and felt a surge push his arm forward. “Leave,” he said. “This is no place for you. I am not for you. By the strength of my djinn bloodline, you must leave. By the persistence of human mothers who bore me, you must leave. By the will of my patron Rosco, you must leave.”
The spirit hesitated, but Malim felt Rosco push his power through his hand. He felt as though he were holding a sword. Something bright flashed from the pendant. The spirit dried and turned to ash, blowing away on an invisible wind.
Malim sighed and made to sit down, but Rosco said, irritation lacing his tone, Ward. Now. Before something else gets in.
Malim cursed and went to go get his herb bundle from his altar, head still aching. He called flame to his fingertips and lit it, waving it around the four corners of his one-room basement apartment. He noticed that the back-up seven-pointed metal ward he hung above his window was frayed. He’d have to make a new one. It was an older ward anyway. It had survived a long time. After smoking the apartment, he went to each area, singing bell tones and lifting the sludge up from the floor and into the air above him. The energy was heavy. It felt nasty.
Rosco said, Shower, goofy. Cleanse while you do so.
Malim huffed, wiping his wrist across his forehead. He was sweating a little bit by now. “I know the drill, Rosco. This isn’t my first time getting attacked.” He walked into the bathroom and started undressing.
Rosco said, If you listened to me last week, maybe you wouldn’t have gotten attacked.
Malim yelled, “You’re blaming me, now? I was tired! You try working two jobs! I have a lot to take care of!” He hurled his underwear in the hamper and slammed the lid shut. The wicker hamper thumped weakly and ineffectually. Malim glared at it.
Rosco yelled, his voice ricocheting across Malim’s mind, You try taking care of you. That’s a fulltime job. You attract so much shit all the time. You’re always on the verge of getting hurt.
Malim growled, “You’re ageless! And powerful! I bet you have a ton of people to look after, it’s not just me!” He turned on the water to the shower, as hot as he could make it without burning his skin. Hotter than full humans could make it.
He felt Rosco gritting his teeth before saying, There isn’t anyone else like you. Shower. Now.
Malim snapped, “I am! I’m cleansing, I’m showering. Go yell at someone else.”
Quiet.
What did Rosco mean by There isn’t anyone else like you? Malim growled again. Who knew what went through his head. It didn’t bear thinking about. It’s not like Malim could just ask. He wouldn’t get a straight answer anyway. Malim pulled his rosemary and apple cider vinegar solution from its stand and tipped some over his head. He washed his hands with it, his back, his chest, then washed like a normal person. He sighed, massaging his temples. He tried to lose himself in the feeling of the hot spray.
Malim thought back to when he had first met Rosco. The entity (deity?) had been friendly, quiet. He had stopped by when Malim had still been living with roommates, dropping in to chat or ask him questions. It had taken about six months for Malim to trust Rosco enough to formally work with him. He still didn’t know if he should have waited longer. There wasn’t exactly a manual for this kind of thing.
Malim had tried looking up people with spirit sight in his city but most people who claimed to see spirits were swindlers. They usually preyed on people who missed their dead. Malim hadn’t seen the point in engaging with that. The ones who weren’t swindlers didn’t have spirit sight as strongly as him. The most they could do was feel vibes from spirits and interpret from that, and consequently were seen as charlatans anyway. No one took them seriously. And they couldn’t help Malim figure out the scope of what he could do at all. It had been a frustrating experience.
Rosco had turned into a mentor for him about four months in, which helped to build trust. And the thing was: Rosco’s methods worked. Most wards he learned from his family were about sending back magic of ill-intent. Rosco helped him work out what repelled spirits. Because spirits, for as long as he could remember, had been after Malim. They terrorized him, grabbed him, gave him migraines by banging on his brain. Nothing had helped those migraines before he had acquired a patron.
Rosco had helped him figure out how to shield himself. Rosco had taught him about yarrow and mullein smoke as a ward. And it was Rosco’s symbol of the seven-pointed star that Malim now used as secondary wards and an amulet. The entity never asked for much in return. Offerings of cooked rice, boiled corn, fresh hot peppers—relatively cheap fare. Conversation and touch. No alcohol, no tobacco. Mostly time. And thanks. Nothing extravagant, nothing fancy. It seemed small in comparison.
Malim sat down in the shower and leaned his head against the tile. He had forgotten to say thanks. Thanks was important. He let the hot water slowly melt away more of his tension before reaching out again. “Rosco.”
Fingers gently touched his forehead. They burned his skin a little, but offered waves of soothing chill on his brain. Is your headache better?
Malim nodded. “It is now. Thank you. For alerting me, after we—” Malim hesitated. He couldn’t say it out loud. It felt ridiculous to acknowledge. A lot of his work with Rosco felt ridiculous in some capacity. People just didn’t believe in that sort of thing. What people tended to do with their magic was try to bend the universe to their will. Spirits had no place in this age. Malim said, “And thank you for getting me to fix things so quickly.”
The fingers trailed over his scalp. More soothing chill. Didn’t want anyone taking you away.
Malim rolled his eyes. That was also ridiculous. “That spirit felt disgusting. There was no way I was working with it.”
Good. A feeling of relief coasted along that word. A pause. I didn’t want you getting hurt, either. Another pause. Go eat something, goofy. Otherwise your headache will come back.
Fingers lifted from Malim’s head. Quiet again. Sometimes Malim wondered what the hell Rosco was doing when he was away. Maybe fighting some cosmic battle. Malim had never figured out what spirits did when they were away. What he had figured out was that spirits have no restrictions on distance. They could show up anywhere or at any time. He thought it was possible that they were always around at all times, all at once. But he wasn’t sure. It was a little hard to gauge. Especially with Rosco. The entity was so damn mysterious. He liked to be.
Malim ate and spent the rest of the morning cleaning up, which he hadn’t done in three days. Clothes strewn about, empty water bottles. Tidying would also help cleanse the energy of the room. He made his bed, put on his comfiest pajamas, and curled up under his blankets. As soon as he closed his eyes he heard a voice with a coarse accent shout at him.
Who the fuck are you?
Malim’s eyes snapped wide open and he sat up angrily. “And who the fuck are you? Why are you here?” He was tired.
I was pulled here. A pale skinny man with soft brown eyes and wavy brown hair looked at him. I’m Terry. Who are you?
Malim told Terry his name. “What do you mean pulled here?” He glanced at the broken ward. Without wards were all spirits pulled toward him? Was Rosco? Was that malevolent spirit earlier? Did that explain his whole life’s struggle?
Like there was a string yanking me. Terry’s eyes widened. You can see me. You can help.
Malim groaned and fell back on his bed.
Terry tapped him on the shoulder. I need someone to help. Might as well be you.
Malim sighed. “With what? How can I help?”
Rosco said in his mind, Why are you entertaining this guy?
Malim said back, He doesn’t seem malevolent.
Some spirits can turn malevolent if they don’t get what they want.
Malim said, Look at him. Tell me if he has a bad bone in his body.
Spirits don’t have bones, Rosco said irritably. I’ll check.
The form of Terry rippled. What the fuck was that? Terry gasped. That felt like I was meat in jello.
Rosco said, He’s clean.
“That was my patron.” Malim said again, “How can I help?”
Terry narrowed his eyes. Then he said, I need you to stop my friend from making a mistake.
Malim nodded. “Okay. Who is this friend?”
Bryce Tennyson.
Malim hissed. “The rising star boxer? The one all over instagram? He could beat me to a pulp if I look at him wrong. He lives nearby?”
Bryce wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s a teddy bear. I’ll lead you to his place. We don’t have time. He’s going to get in trouble. Terry frowned. I don’t want him to get hurt for my sake. I’m fading. I don’t know who else to turn to. No one else can hear me like you.
Malim squeezed his eyes shut. He wrinkled his nose. A boxer who was a teddy bear. A boxer known for knocking out men in one hit after toying with them was a teddy bear. “I don’t know how convincing I’ll be. You have to tell me what to say. He likely won’t believe me.”
Thank you, thank you. Come on! We’ve got no time.
Malim threw on a cardigan and changed his pants, and set off on a walk, Terry leading the way in front of him. He made sure to wear his pendant and kept up his mental shield. He could hear Rosco grumbling in his mind. It was approaching noon now. A cool breeze, sun high in the sky. Maybe Bryce would be busy eating. Or out running errands. Or training. Maybe he didn’t have to talk to someone who would think he was crazy at all.
Time passed quickly, or slowed. Malim didn’t know which. But he was somehow at the doorstep of a brownstone apartment. He rang the buzzer. Waited. No answer. Well! That was that then. Bryce wasn’t home. Malim turned but heard the door creak open. “Hello?”
Malim hesitated then faced Bryce. A big man, fucked up nose. Ear swollen. Beautiful, in a fierce way. Heavy grief in the eyes. Malim said, “Terry needs to give you a message. Can we talk?”
Bryce’s face tightened, then he said in a low voice, “I don’t know who you are, but get off my stairs and walk the other way. This isn’t funny. This isn’t a joke.”
Malim’s eyes widened. “No, no, I just—”
This isn’t working, Terry said, and pushed in and Malim gasped and his mouth opened and—
Bryce Bryce you have to listen to me Bryce it isn’t worth it to throw away your career for me Bryce please you can’t win this fight alone you have to come home to me Bryce I’m fading now I’m waking up soon come back to me I love you don’t do this don’t get yourself hurt like I did things will change when I wake up you have to be patient don’t leave me stay with me stay safe stay here I love you—
“Terry?”
Malim’s knees buckled as Terry left him, falling. Malim felt wrong. He felt all of the pieces of himself put back together poorly. His clothes hurt his skin. The breeze hurt. The sun was too bright. He was shaking. He gagged. Cool fingers on his brow and his face, petting him. I’m right here, baby. Goofy. Look what he did to you.
Strong arms lifted him up and Malim trudged past a door, heart fluttering, heaving. He was deposited near a toilet, a warm hand on his back. He heaved until bile came up. Heaved more until food crawled up his throat. A cool hand around his as he gripped the rim of the bowl. Poor baby. I’ve got you.
Malim felt tears leak from his eyes. “It wasn’t my fault this time, Rosco,” he rasped.
No, it wasn’t. It’s never your fault, goofy. I’m sorry I said that. I get worried. A cold kiss on his brow. An incorporeal thumb brushing his temple.
The heaving calmed. Malim wiped tears from his eyes. He felt wrecked. Bryce was crouched next to him, regarding him carefully. Bryce held out a glass of water. “Who are you?”
Malim coughed, and took the water with an unsteady hand. “Malim Cendari. Death witch.”
Bryce warily watched him drink the water. “I didn’t know witches dealt in death. I thought necromancers did that.”
Malim took a breath. Then another. Then another. He felt Rosco behind him, arms around his waist. “Not dead bodies. Spirits. They find me. Sometimes I help them. If I can. If they’re not awful. This hasn’t happened before. I’m sorry.” His voice was hoarse. Terry must have been shouting. The vomit hadn’t helped that either. He reached over and flushed the toilet with a hand.
“Spirits.” Bryce looked at him. “Are you gonna be okay?”
Malim focused on breathing. He was still shivering slightly. He didn’t know how to feel solid. “I don’t know. I’ve never been possessed before. What did Terry say? I can’t remember what came out of my mouth.”
Bryce sighed. He looked into the middle distance, at nothing. “He was asking me not to throw my life away for him.”
Malim focused on his breathing. In, out, in, out. He felt wrung out. “Can I sit down somewhere?” Nausea still roiled in him.
Bryce hooked a hand under Malim’s elbow. As Malim rose he felt Rosco’s hand on the small of his back, a steadying touch. Bryce led Malim to his couch, plush, comfy. Malim was shaking again. “Do you know what you need right now?”
Malim shook his head. He was having trouble thinking. “Rosco,” he whispered, and felt Rosco send his power rolling through him, from his crown to his toes. The shaking stopped.
Bryce said, “What?” But Bryce’s phone rang in his pocket. He checked to see who was calling. “It’s the hospital. I’m sorry, I should—” He was already walking away.
“You should,” Malim said. He could hear the hushed tones of Bryce’s bass-y voice in the hall. Malim focused on the texture of the couch, the woven threads comforting under the pads of his palm. He closed his eyes, could hear Bryce say something to him. Malim nodded absently, and sank into darkness, falling, down, down—
Feet on embers, flames bursting through his skin and he steps—steps out of the fire onto sand, night above, moonlight glittering over dunes, Malim walks and walks, watching dervishes dance under stars, he walks and there is Rosco, and Rosco lays his hands on Malim’s face, he leans, he leans, Malim falls forward—
Thump, thump, bands around a stifled heart, night hands pry open the metal, night hands hold the heart, smooth the stresses, the bruises, the welts, cool breath on flesh, and Malim can breathe, can—
Malim is sitting at the center of everything. Galaxies spin. Rosco sits across from him, takes his hand, the weight of stars pressing on Malim, but there’s light in that darkness and the light travels over his being, soothing, soothing, holding him, Malim is precious, a treasure, a life lived in heartache, in terror, but the shadows of each terror recede under Rosco’s steady searching hands, and Malim falls—
Malim took a shaky breath. He opened his eyes. He found himself in his small box of an apartment. On his bed. Night had fallen. The ward was still broken. He felt like a burn soothed by aloe. Tender and smarting everywhere. But better. Put together. A whole Malim instead of a Malim in pieces. He looked over to Rosco’s altar next to the ancestral altar. Rosco sat atop the surface, one leg drawn up under his chin. Malim knew Rosco was looking at him. Malim opened his mouth and said in a rough voice, “How did I get home?”
Rosco said, I took you.
Confusing. It was hard to think. Cotton candy thoughts melted as he touched them. “How?” Malim managed to say.
When I moved your spirit, your body came with it. I knew it would. Your body and mind are intricately connected with your spirit.
“You teleported me? Like in fiction?”
Not so fictional.
Malim thought for a moment. He pushed his mind through his body. “You healed me.”
Yes, goofy. I healed you.
“Thank you. Are you tired? Do you need to rest?”
I don’t get tired. My power is exponentially more vast than yours. I don’t know what being tired feels like.
Malim sighed. “I know that. I just,” he faltered. “Thank you.”
Rosco shrugged, then walked over to the bed and sat on it. The bed didn’t dip. Rosco had no weight. He wasn’t really there, after all. It’s my duty to look after you. That was the agreement.
Malim didn’t know what to say. He didn’t remember the agreement being that, not exactly. He remembered it being something along the lines of: You help my spells work, I make offerings in return. Malim hadn’t made an offering in three weeks. He hadn’t even been doing magic outside of banishings. He’d felt guilty about the lack of dedication. Now Rosco was saying all this, doing all this for him. “Thank you,” he said again.
Rosco put a hand to Malim’s cheek, thumb stroking his skin. But what I’m doing isn’t enough.
Malim squinted. “You do plenty.” He thought over the years with Rosco. “I know I’m a lot.”
It’s not that you’re a lot. It’s that I need a body. I need to be there.
Malim rolled his eyes. “Oh, sure, yeah, let’s just go down to the cemetery and dig someone up for you. Can anything even contain you? What about other people you look out for?”
Don’t worry about it. Malim tried to sit up, but Rosco put a finger to his forehead and Malim felt a weight fall over him. Sleep. You need to recover more.
And Malim slept a dreamless sleep.