Mal stops dead in the entryway to the receiving hall of her mother's castle, the simmering wariness that lives in the pit of her stomach roaring to life.
Few people on the Isle frequent her mother's domain. Few, but not none. Maleficent needs to rule the grimy spit of land from somewhere, after all, and likes to use the larger space to conduct business—relaying orders to pawns, collecting dues, threatening guests. The usual.
Mal had long since memorized and dismissed the faces of her mother's thugs, allies of convenience, and habitual victims. Few others dared to venture into her mother's domain. Even fewer survived. So the split-second sight of Mal's crew in her mother's hall, tucked into the sides of their own parents, sends panic surging through her veins.
Mal gives herself half a breath to take in the situation. Jafar, Cruella, and the Evil Queen are lounging around the room on worn furniture, looking very satisfied with themselves. Ominous. They've never been allied with her mother before, though Jafar occasionally paid fees to operate his ring of thieves on Maleficent's territory.
Mal eyes the opened cans of fruit placed within reach of each adult villain. Apparently that's changed. Even Maleficent wouldn't break out something as valuable as canned goods for a power play.
Jay is leaning up against a wall next to his father, the picture of ease. But his crossed arms hide his hands, tense and fisted into his sides. Carlos is beside his mother, perfectly still and unblinking as Cruella drags her long fingers through his hair. Evie is sitting in the chair beside her mother, legs crossed at the ankle, face blank and still as ice, posture eerily flawless.
Her heart pounds in her ears. Mal does her best to keep her crew far from the gaze of Maleficent for good reason. That they're here at all is a bad sign. That their parents have been invited in with them is worse.
"Mother," Mal says, voice flat. "You called."
Mal ignores the burning eyes that snap to her movement as she strides to the raised platform where her mother sits. A cruel smirk twists Maleficent's lips as she toys idly with the scepter in her hands. Mal doesn't dare look to her allies, keeping her gaze locked on the space above her mother's right ear.
Maleficent is draped across her ragged Isle throne, the blocky construction naturally drawing the eye. The raised platform lifts the villain above the room's natural eyeline, forcing all visitors to crane their necks backward to address the dark fae. The chair itself is simple, worn purple fabric barely softening blocky, square lines. But the throne doesn't need to be gilded to enforce respect. No, that's left to the monster sitting in the chair.
The creature on the throne isn't a human being, and doesn't pretend to be. The long, hard years on the Isle hadn't dulled her air of danger, only sharpened it like a blade. Starvation had only deepened the inhuman cut to her features. Gleaming black horns rise above corpse-pale skin, and burning green eyes peer out of a bored face. Maleficent wears terror like an old, favored cloak: effortlessly.
Mal's own face — a few years older, a few degrees crueler, and quite a bit more insane — smiles down from Maleficent's throne.
"Mal," she purrs. "So good of you to join us." Mal leans her hip carelessly against the wooden railing of the steps, aloof expression fixed in place.
"Well, you've got me curious. It's so rare for you to call me home." Mal turns and sweeps a cool gaze over the room. I'll handle my mother, Mal says to her crew with her eyes, ignoring their parents' hungry gazes. Don't do anything stupid. "I didn't know we were having company."
"Yes," her mother says, a long finger tapping slow and measured on the polished black wood of her scepter. "There have been many changes the past few days."
Unease shivers below Mal's skin. Sudden changes in her mother's behavior never bode well.
Maleficent ceases tapping on her scepter and, for the first time since Mal had entered the room, bothers to look at her.
"Auradon has seen fit to extend you four a place on the mainland."
Mal's mind goes blank. The moment she had received her mother's summons, her mind had been churning with potential reasons and likely outcomes. Maleficent often gave her tasks to complete—terrorizing shopkeepers, supervising shipments, snatching a few more feet of concrete to add to her mother's expansive territory, the like. She was not prepared for Auradon.
"The mainland?" Jay asks, incredulous. Mal tamps down the intense urge to stomp on his foot.
"They can't be serious." she says instead, drawing Maleficent's eyes back to her. Outside. Leaving the Isle. Mal's brain pokes at the foreign concepts with a stick, a bit lost. Of course Mal had thought about escaping the Isle of the Lost before. She had been a child, once, and hungry. But some things in life are fixed. They're villains. Water is wet. The Barrier surrounding the Isle of the Lost is unbreakable. Mal needed to survive, not waste time dreaming about the impossible. A belly full of hope just left you hungry.
"Oh, I assure you they're very serious. As are we." Maleficent smiles, a sick white gleam in the shadows. "Twenty years on this forsaken rock and we finally have our chance." She glides to her feet, a pale hand slipping out from her robes to clutch at the railing.
Mal's mind reels. "Why now? Why us?" Why did they want descendants of the world's greatest villains in their picture-perfect country? For that matter, how had they picked out Mal's crew?
Maleficent tsks, dismissive. "Does it matter?" she asks. "It doesn't change what you have to do." The back of Mal's neck prickles with wariness. Maleficent was scheming, and Mal's gang looked to be at ground zero.
"And what is that?" Mal asks slowly. What else could she do? None of them are in a position to refuse their parents.
"I'm so glad you asked," Maleficent coos, surging closer towards Mal down the steps, her robes a swirl of black shadow. Mal stiffens as her mother reaches out with her free hand, ghosting past Mal's face, curling a free lock of her hair around a bony finger. Mal's heart hammers in her chest, though she doesn't allow herself anything as childish as a flinch.
"You will go." Her voice is like iron. "You will do whatever is necessary to stay and avoid suspicion. Find the Fairy Godmother, steal her wand, and bring it back." Maleficent's face crinkles with mirth, but her eyes stay cold. She tugs at the hair caught in her grip. It prickles like hot needles against Mal's scalp. "Easy, no?"
The Fairy Godmother. The fiendishly clever architect of the prison colony Mal had grown up trapped inside. Her work had humbled the world's greatest villains for nearly two decades, baffling every attempt to circumvent its protections. And her mother wanted Mal and her crew to infiltrate Auradon — apparently on invitation — wow, that stank of a trap — and … steal the tool the Fairy Godmother had used to do it?
Mal wants to slide her gaze over the room to check in with her allies. This plan is worse than suicide. Mal can't even imagine the punishment the Fairy Godmother might devise for the mad fools that attempt to take her wand. But her mother is standing too close, toying with her hair, watching the microexpressions flicker across Mal's face. There's no room for subterfuge. Surely her mother isn't serious—Mal gives herself a mental slap. She breathes. Her mother is serious. There wouldn't be food on the table and strangers in the hall if she weren't.
"'Find the Fairy Godmother', you say," Mal says slowly, playing for time. "Auradon's a big place, from what I hear. She could be anywhere. What's our timeline, here? How are we supposed to even track her down?"
"Must I spell out every detail?" Maleficent sighs harshly, stepping away. The tension in Mal's spine eases minutely. "Use your magic, child. Provided I haven't wasted years of my life teaching you, finding a magical artifact that puts off enough power to generate lightning should be a breeze." Her lip curls. "Managing to take it from the bitch is the real problem. Which is why we are providing you all with...resources."
"Grimhilde—" Maleficent signals with a jerk of her chin "—give the girl your mirror."
Grimhilde's mouth tightens, evidently displeased to be ordered about. Well, that's the price of doing business with Maleficent.
"Evelyn," Grimhilde intones. "I am entrusting the future success of this family to you." The careful, cultured enunciation of her words had never left the Evil Queen's voice, despite her long imprisonment on the Isle. She sat in the spindly chair of Maleficent's castle as if it were a bejeweled throne, her gaze heavy and imperious. "I expect you already understand the weight of this duty, and the consequences of failure."
"Yes, Mother," Evie replies placidly. Her eyes blink, plastic and shiny like a doll's. Mal watches behind bored eyes, a little fascinated, despite herself. Evie wasn't a brilliant actress — that was too shallow of a word for what she did. Evie became new people at will. Mal had never met the person sitting at Grimhilde's side, face tranquil, posture perfect.
Grimhilde reaches into the dainty purse at her side, withdrawing a gleaming shard of mirror. It seems to catch every drop of light in the dimly lit hall, drawing every eye. Jafar scrubs his palms on the knees of his pants, swallowing harshly. Evie's eyebrows are lifted slightly in surprise.
"Your Magic Mirror…" she says. "You're letting me use it?"
"Don't repeat the obvious, Evelyn," Grimhilde says waspishly, before forcing calm back into her voice. "Of course I am. Now is not the time to be hiding trump cards." Her lips twist bitterly. "On the Isle, this is a pretty bit of broken glass. Outside the barrier, this is the most powerful enchanted scrying tool ever created, and could be the difference between victory and death." Her eyes darken. "Treat it appropriately."
Evie inclines her head, elegant as the queen that raised her. "I understand, Mother." Grimhilde watches her a beat longer, gaze heavy, lips tight, before placing it in Evie's hands.
"And for God's sake," Grimhilde sighs heavily, turning her gaze away. "Keep it well fed."
A slam echoes through the hall. People jump; Mal twitches, despite herself.
"How enlightening," Maleficent drawls, smoothing the dark leather of the spellbook trapped beneath her hand. "If only all the little trinkets on this island came with such history lessons." Grimhilde's lip curls, but chooses not to respond.
"Use this," Maleficent directs to Mal, voice suddenly stripped of amusement, cold. "Do as you're told, and don't get caught." She sneers. "And if you manage to kill yourself attempting a spell you aren't ready for, well—that's your own fault." Maleficent shoves the book into Mal's chest hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs.
Maleficent had spent years harshly instructing her daughter on the principles of a magic they couldn't use. In all that time, Mal hadn't been allowed to lay so much as a finger on this spellbook. Her fingers tighten on the cover. Her mother really isn't holding back. Maleficent wants this.
Eyes slide to Jafar and Cruella. "Don't look at me," Jafar snorts, lifting his empty hands in mock surrender. "I'm a humble businessman. All my legendary artifacts of terrible power are for sale. I'm giving you my son, aren't I?"
Maleficent rolls her eyes. "Yes, yes, so you've said," she says, flapping a hand dismissively. Mal eyes Jafar like a particularly disgusting bug and imagines crushing him beneath her boot.
Jay smiles rakishly, like his father hadn't just sold him off for an alliance. "Who needs magic when you've got hands like mine? This is a robbery, yeah?" he says without a drop of doubt in his voice. "Then there's no one better to have on your side than a thief."
Maleficent lifts an eyebrow. "We'll see," she says.
"Be sure to bring a present back for your mother," Cruella is saying to Carlos. "Something pretty. Something that screams."
Mal watches with fascination as Maleficent listens to this with a blank face, then visibly decides not to touch that particular batch of crazy. Apparently there were levels of batshit insane to which Maleficent was unwilling to descend.
Mal places the spellbook on the table, careful not to scuff the leather. "These are valuable resources," she says. "How long, exactly, are you expecting this to take?" It's a bit of a gamble; Maleficent would sometimes fly into rages at Mal's "incessant, insipid questions." But Mal's crew would need all the information they could get if they wanted a chance of success on their fool's fucking errand.
Maleficent rocks back on her heels. "One year."
"A year?" Mal can't help the disbelief that colors her tone. That was…a generous time frame for a single job. Mal often had trouble wrangling a deadline further out than a week for her mother's errands.
"One. Year." Maleficent punctuates her words with the crack of her scepter on the stone floor. Mal's heart seizes at the noise, and disguises the flinch with a long, slow blink. "I want this done right. You have one year, but that's your absolute time limit. Any longer and I assume betrayal. And I do so detest traitors."
Maleficent's eyes glitter with glee, betraying her words. Oh, she certainly dislikes correcting the fallout of a betrayal, Mal knows. Regaining lost ground and papering over the cracks of a plan run off-course is annoying. That's why she so often dumps the work on Mal. But traitors…she delights in traitors. Of all the victims in Maleficent's dungeons, traitors last the longest—the poor bastards. Mal could hear the last one screaming for months.
Maleficent sighs, dropping her chin into the palm of one hand, a theatrical attempt at regret painted across her face. "But that does bring us to the question of loyalty. How convenient! It's a big world out there. So many ways for daughters to go astray."
Her mother reaches out like a viper, seizing Mal's wrist, and presses the trinket she's been rolling between her fingers into Mal's palm. It's a splinter of rock, about the size of a fingernail, glossy black and glittering along its sharp edge. It's all Mal can do to stop herself from flinging it away the moment it touches her skin. It feels wrong.
"What is it?" Mal asks, voice tight.
"Insurance," Maleficent says, releasing Mal's wrist. Her stomach twists. Maleficent smiles. "Put it," she says, "in dear Carlos." Her eyes are lit with sick glee. Mal's hand clenches tight over the cursed rock.
She knew it. She knew it she knew it she knew it, suspected it the second she walked in and saw her crew sitting quietly in her mother's hall. Her mother is cruel and she knows Mal, can peel back her skin and pick out the sick weakness infecting her like rot.
"In Carlos?" she asks, carefully blank.
"Yes, in Carlos. Shove it through his palm or take out an eye or make him swallow it and slice his stomach to ribbons for all I care—it doesn't matter what you pick. The stone just needs to taste blood."
Damnit, damnit, damnit. Mal has to try. "Doesn't his mother prefer him intact?" Bored. Aloof. Cold. Mal can do this.
"Oh, only most of the time." Cruella cuts in. "But I'd like to get off this damn island even more."
"See!" Maleficent's eyes crinkle. "All approved. Now—" Her hand reaches down and seizes Mal's chin, forcing her to look into burning green eyes. Mal feels her skin go cold, her gut clench, her muscles tense. "—obey your mother," she hears Maleficent say, through the roaring in her ears.
Her mother's eyes flare and the world burns. (—obey obey obey—) Pressure crushes. (—obey obey obey—) Up and down tilt in new directions like a warped mirror. (—obey obey obey—) Pain slams into her skull like an iron pick through an eye, whispers worming into her brain like something alive. (—obey OBEY OBEY—)
Mal tears the compulsion from her mind and her face from her mother's grip.
"I'm not a child," she snarls. "I can do it myself." Mal marches herself away, big stomping steps jolting sensation back into her body and hiding the tilt to her balance. The world looks too bright, colors oversaturated and glowing. Pain hisses like static. She can't feel her hands.
"Children." Her mother remarks to the room. "So willful."
Awful, awful, awful. Mal is better than this. Her mother is pulling out all the stops for this job; she knows better than to resist pointlessly. Her fists clench. No matter who her mother is ordering her to hurt.
Carlos is still trapped under the hands of his mother, but as Mal approaches, Cruella shoves him forward. Carlos is a bony twig of a kid, even shorter than her. He won't look her in the eye. Mal pauses, considering, mouth thinning to a sharp line.
Her hand reaches out, and she hesitates for a split second. Just long enough for him to catch on. Mal has to hurt him, but if they're quiet about it, he can choose where.
Carlos peels off his jacket and tugs up his sleeve. He's always been a smart kid. Mal glances over Carlos' shoulder and sees Cruella lean forward in interest. Her eyes are dilated with pleasure, the sick bitch.
His arm is wiry and dotted with shiny white scars, and tenses when she grabs it. Mal doesn't hesitate to press the stone into the fleshiest part of his arm, skin parting easily from the sharp edge. This close, she can hear the tiny huff of air he allows himself to react to the pain. Blood wells from the wound and Mal feels Carlos' flesh ripple and twist under her fingers. All that's left is a smeared trail of blood on Carlos' arm.
The bottom drops out from Mal's stomach. Magic. Magic. Her thoughts race. How had Maleficent managed to get magic to work under the Barrier? And what the fuck had Mal just stabbed him with.
Her mother squeezes her shoulder, just a hair too tight. "Now, whatever happens to him will be your fault." She smiles. Mal can hear it in her voice. "Don't disappoint me."
Mal doesn't react, because she can't. Carlos won't look her in the eyes, just shrugs on his jacket. Her mother's heels click on the stone floor as she walks away. Mal exhales silently, and turns.
"When do we leave?" Aloof. Calm. She can do this. She has to.
"Oh, did I not mention?" Maleficent lifts an imperious eyebrow. "You leave today. If you hurry, there might be an hour or so left for you all to pack your things." She settles back into a predatory recline on her throne, flicking a hand in dismissal.
"Now, get out of my sight."
AN: a BIG thank you to meg for proofreading + spitballing ideas with me for hours (!?). they're OUR blorbos 3