It was another long night for the Crown Prince, burning the midnight oil in his office which felt like he was there more often than in his own bedroom.
He was determined to work hard for the people of Auradon, who trusted the House of Bourbon. He also had a vested interest in bringing Cecil de Vil to justice.
He needed to prove to himself that he could be an impartial and fair ruler, that meant putting his feelings aside and making sure justice was served. Yes, he was jealous of Carlos and the love Mal had for him, but that didn't mean he would use his power to slight the Isle teen or undermine his future in Auradon. He was both Ben the man who loved Mal and Ben, the Crown Prince. The two didn't necessarily overlap at all times.
There were still many questions to be answered, one of the pressing ones was how Cecil managed to get ahold of his personal stationery. P.H. had given him what Cecil had given them, and it was his genuine stationery he used for matters of State. He had contacted the Office of the Royal Seal, and they had given him their inventory logs. Nothing was amiss so the theft had to be from his personal office. It was a felony to misuse the Seal of the Crown Prince and forge letters in his name, not to mention how it had been in his desk. Auradon Prep was supposed to be one of the most secure places in Auradon, doubly so since the heir to the High Throne attended. It was unnerving that Cecil, or someone he had paid, had managed to steal from the Crown Prince.
The fact that Cecil would do something so illegal just to push Carlos out of the family meant that he had something else of higher value to lose than his freedom when Carlos came into his rightful inheritance. That led to the inquiry into Cecil's money trail, which led to political donations, which were coming up with some troubling discrepancies.
As Ben wasn't an investigator, he was not privy to their official reports. At least not unless he would be accused of meddling into an investigation and poisoning the evidence. He could, however, pay a private investigator to look into public records, they were open to commons and royals alike.
From the reports, it dismayed Ben that a large bulk of Cecil's political donations had been to support laws put forward by King Adam himself. It was also troubling to see reports of how run down the Department of Isle Affairs' building had been. There were plenty of people on payroll, but the PI found out that the investigators were having trouble finding real people to speak to.
Then there was the suspicious death of Peter Huntsman, the Administrator of the agency.
Ben was not a lawyer, although going into the legal field and getting a Juris Doctor was becoming a possibility, so he didn't fully understand the technical language of the laws the PI cited, but he could see how it boiled down to embezzlement, with the potential of the Department of Isle Affairs as a front to launder money. Ben wouldn't be surprised if the investigation had cast a wider net and included his own spending from the various government purses. Thankfully, he was not the type to unscrupulously pull money from thin air. It may look odd that prince Chad had given a significant amount to the Isle-to-Auradon program, but one didn't have to list the reasons for their donation. There was nothing to tie them to their visit to the Isle.
With the exception of if the whores Chad paid for that night and had slept with fell pregnant with royal bastards, but that was a nervous breakdown for another date.
From the initial reports, Cecil de Vil has spent an exorbitant amount of money to help fund the Department of Isle Affairs from its infancy to currently, and to lobby for any and all anti-magic legislature, most of which originated from King Adam. What Cecil gave and what they could see as the result from those funds did not match up. There were some itemized lists of expenditures, but nothing that would justify the costs. To anyone looking at the paperwork, it was obvious the accounts were puffed up, so that begged the question of where the money really went.
Ben's first instinct was that the money was used to "convince" key people in the House of Commons, Lords, and Royals to vote a certain way. Direct payments were too obvious and would be found out easily, gifts of expensive dinners and other entertainment (perhaps trips to the Isle for whores) could muddle the trail. Practically every member of the House of Lords and Royals had businesses and several bank accounts, it'd be all too easy to muddle things further by bouncing money around through legitimate businesses and shifting bank accounts.
If these discrepancies came to light, then not only would people lose faith in their monarchy and government, but it would also put the House of Bourbon into even more doubt. It could upend the entire United Kingdoms, as it was all based on rallying behind one king for one kingdom.
Crown Prince Ben was the heir to the High Throne, and King Adam's only child. If he were entertaining these thoughts, then he was certain the investigators were coming to the same idea.
It was a real possibility that the Bourbon dynasty on the High Throne would only be one generation, and Ben was so overwhelmed with anger he couldn't even Beast Out.
The Isle of the Lost was King Adam's pet project, the Department of Isle Affairs the natural child of that idea. All of Cecil's donations seem to led to King Adam.
Did his father owe Cecil for all of the commoner's funding?
No one would bat an eye if the King visited and went into the Crown Prince's office. No one would certainly dare to ask King Adam what he was doing with his son's stationery if they noticed it in his possession.
It never crossed Ben's mind before, but now that he was in charge of Auradon City, he was well aware of how much money it cost to run. It made him wonder how his father found the capital to run a campaign to unite the 18 Kingdoms with him as the High King, all the while also funding the Fae Wars.
Once he started to think about it, Ben couldn't stop. The former kingdom of France had been under a spell, it was ten years of lost leadership and tax revenue. A kingdom couldn't collect taxes if the local monarch could not enforce his tax collectors to collect money from the commons and lords. Even if the commons and lords were wont to pay their levies, how could they if they were under a spell to forget they even had a monarch? The French kingdom had been spelled to go about their day, any thought of the king and anything to do with the monarchy was glazed over.
Part of the reason his father was cursed was because the royal family had spoiled him and were spendthrifts. King David, Ben's grandfather, had kept the royal palace enriched and threw decadent parties while the commons bore the brunt of taxes and starved.
Of course, that was never mentioned in the stories. People took the tale at face value and even he never questioned it. Now that he was, and he was certain the investigators were also, how exactly did King Adam get the funds for a war and campaign, when he was cash poor and king in name only?
Perhaps his father had used his curse and subsequent marriage to his mother to distract the people from this oversight, but money trails never lied.
The trail would be over twenty years old, but money always left breadcrumbs for someone to follow. He became nervous when that trail looked like Cecil pay rolled Adam's bid for Unification, and as a favor, was now helping Cecil push out the rightful heir to Cruella's fortune. King Adam had already shown his indifference to the suffering of a child on the Isle, would he purposefully rob a child of their birthright to keep the money flowing?
Ben loved his father, and he prayed that there had to be some other explanation.
Special Agent Jureau was from a small town in Westerly, her work with His Majesty's Revenue and Customs has taken her across the UKA, investigating all sorts of crimes that involved money. She had seen her fair share of billionaires who ran Banzai schemes and insider trading. She had seen mega mansions and secret bachelor pads that were worth more than she'd ever see in a lifetime, all bought with dirty money.
There were even a few times she had investigated the nobility, those who were desperate to keep the wealth their forebears had seen in the past and used illegal means to gain back that wealth when their estate could no longer support their lifestyle in the modern world.
She had never been in such a sumptuous home as that of the eccentrically named Hell Hall.
The nobles she had investigated had ancient castles and estates; grand palaces made before modern conveniences. Those always had a museum like feel, and never quite translated well into modern times. The castles were made to be fortresses and while they had noble trappings such as expensive tapestries and ornate furniture, the buildings themselves were more utilitarian.
Hell Hall, however, was built as a monument to the wealth of the de Vils. They had no fear of invading armies, they had no need for stone walls, towers, small windows or murder holes, and drafty halls. It was the very definition of conspicuous consumption.
She had done some light background research on the de Vils, as she already had a vague knowledge of the family, which was a household name. She may have been from Westerly, but news of such a prominent family was known throughout the 18 Kingdoms.
Hell Hall was one of several mansions built during the so-called Gilded Age of East Riding. There were several that dotted the coast as summer "cottages" and then there were the main residences. There was a plethora of marble, gold fixtures, leaded crystal chandeliers, and the homes were designed to be works of art. Further, the grand rooms and high walls were meant to show off more wealth, to don expensive portraits, gold leaf molding, and silk wall coverings.
Agent Jureau eyed a vase that probably cost more than her yearly salary several times over.
Hell Hall was not the main residence of Cecil de Vil, but they had agents all over Auradon knocking on every property listed, and were interviewing associates, kith, and kin.
She and her partner, Agent Hotchner, were welcomed in by a maid and told to sit in the Lady's Parlour. It looked to be a room dedicated to be a bright airy sitting area. They were offered tea and told that the mistress of the house would be with them soon.
Both agents were surprised they were so easily let in. They had been prepared to be turned away and told to make some sort of appointment, and eventually come back with a warrant. Normally socialites had a heavy social calendar or had errands and were hard to track down.
Malevola had all but retired from the social scene according to their research, and ever since her daughter was banished to the Isle, seemed to prefer a life outside of the papers.
Jureau almost felt pity, as their investigation was leading them to a second criminal de Vil scion that might be on his way to the Isle himself in the near future.
I guess the de Vils will have to put all their hope of a good name on the children.
Jureau was also aware of agents investigating the newest generation of de Vils. They were focusing mostly on Diego and Ivy, as Carlos had only been to Auradon less than a year and it was unlikely he would know anything about his Uncle's finances, even though he had most to gain. From the files she had seen, Carlos was an exemplary student and athlete who had a full scholarship to Wes-Tech.
Diego and Ivy, on the other hand, had decent grades from the premier boarding school for commoners in East Riding and were more interested in becoming social media influencers. Ivy went to Southern Westerly University, a school more known for its wealthy students and party lifestyle than academics. Diego was also on track for attending for the Fall.
Cecil's children were not friends with their cousin, and Jureau had a sneaking suspicion they were told not to by their father.
With the help of forensic accounting, a majority of Cecil's wealth appeared to be derived from mismanagement of Cruella's estate. It wouldn't behoove his children to get close to the most senior heir to the de Vil fortune if they were embezzling his money.
She ardently hoped they could nail the guy, as he was a despicable person for not only stealing from his family but stealing from a kid who had grown up with nothing and didn't deserve to be on the Isle. She had torn feelings as to whether or not the Isle should exist and wanting to protect Auradon from truly dangerous people, but she squarely believed that the children were innocent and certainly did not belong on the Isle at all.
How grossly greedy can you be?
Jureau thought to herself. The de Vils were wealthy, even if Cecil wasn't entitled to the bulk of the fortune, which a good chunk of it was due to Cruella's fashion house, he still probably had enough wealth to look forward to as an heir of Malevola. Cecil was trusted to be Cruella's executor, and he got a generous stipend to do so.
Despite all of that, it seemed it wasn't enough for Cecil.
Malevola finally graced them with her presence. The de Vil matriarch dressed in a purple designer day dress that was wrapped around her like a robe, with a matching gem encrusted turban. She sat in a high-backed chair while the agents were on a French styled couch that was more art than comfortable.
The interview took the afternoon. Malevola was courteous and answered all questions. She claimed she didn't know where her son was, that he wasn't a frequent visitor to Hell Hall, nor were her grandchildren.
They couldn't ask certain questions as they may reveal potential illegal activity on Cecil's part, they certainly didn't want Malevola to interfere or do her own investigations that could disrupt their own.
"Of course, there's Carlos," she sighed, sad that two of her grandchildren had no interest in her because they were self-absorbed, and the third wanted nothing to do with the family due to justified resentment. "He's angry, not that I blame him. We should have fought harder to get him to the mainland when he was born, but information is so scarce coming from the Isle. Cecil has tried to get him to go to family dinners, but the boy refuses. He won't even speak to us or correspond directly with us, His Royal Highness had to tell us the bad news."
That was what had started the whole issue, and both Agents played it cool as they didn't want to tip her off.
"Does Cecil have a passport?" Agent Hotchner inquired, he suspected the man had already fled the country but there have been no hits for the passport he has on record.
"I'm certain Cecil has a passport, every so often I check my phone and there are pictures. On the Facegram," she said with only the confidence an older person who hadn't grown up with social media and didn't use it often. "Ivy is some internet celebrity, I believe," her tone indicated she held no such belief.
Agent Jureau and Agent Hotchner patiently waited while Malevola started on a soft-spoken rant on how the current generation knew nothing of class or elegance, they gently turned the conversation back to her son, Cecil.
"The last I spoke with that boy was…let's see…a little before December. We knew that Auradon Prep was hosting their annual Winter Showcase, we were hoping for an invitation. I believe that's the last letter we got."
"Letter?" Jureau pressed.
"Yes, Crown Prince Ben had broken the news as gently as he could, signed it himself. We of course couldn't press a royal, especially since he had done so much for Carlos already. And we later found out that Carlos had a lead in the Senior dance. It really is a shame that we missed it. His Royal Highness has been so good to work with us, despite Carlos' misgivings."
Hotchner and Jureau remained neutral, not only could they not tip her off that the letter in question was possibly given to her as a felony, but she seemed almost proud that the Crown Prince had written to her directly.
They of course knew no such thing had happened, the Crown Prince had been the one to report the letterhead was missing, and his meeting with Dr. P.H. de Vil over scholarships had revealed that the food scientist had some in his possession and had personally appealed to Ben to intervene.
They had interviewed Dr. de Vil and he explained how they were trying to connect with Carlos. The teen had not been questioned as all sides had said he was kept in the dark. Given the potential illegality and trying to discern exactly what Cecil's intentions and end game were, it was agreed that they could continue to not have contact with Carlos, and that P.H. would not involve his other family members.
Of course, one could not be interviewed by agents of His Majesty's Revenue and Customs without putting some obvious connections together.
"Is my son in trouble?" she asked after getting tired of the niceties.
"That's what we're trying to find out, ma'm. We just have a few questions about some irregularities with his financials."
"Oh, that," she pished and rolled her eyes. "I'm certain it's just a few fudged numbers. Nothing a good accountant can't explain."
Hotchner and Jureau's eyes met, and they both knew the other was trying their best to not roll their eyes. It was rather typical for the rich to get a little creative with their accounting, and while unfair and annoying, more often than not Mrs. de Vil was correct; a highly paid accountant with an equally highly paid attorney could explain a few discrepancies. With a bit more money, an accountant could even take the fall as most rich were too rich to do their own books and could honestly say they weren't 100% certain how much money went where, as they depended on their money managers. As convoluted as the tax code was, they were the only laws one could claim ignorance of and it be a defense. It could very well be that one of Cecil's accountants was responsible for the financial irregularities, hence why they needed to interview him and get a statement or a list of who else had access to Cruella's funds. There was also a possibility that someone had posed as an agent of the Crown Prince, fooling Cecil into thinking his nephew wanted nothing to do with the de Vils.
There were no records of Cecil being in Auradon City, much less Auradon Prep. It was nearly impossible for the man himself to steal the stationery.
Now that Malevola seemed to think it was a paltry situation not worth her time, she all but ended the interview and the agents had enough in their estimation.
"Please, let us know if you see him that we wish to speak with him," Hotchner gave Malevola his business card with all his contact information, Agent Jureau had done the same. Of course, neither expected that even if Malevola had deigned to give her son their cards, that Cecil would be willing to be questioned.
They had a lot of circumstantial evidence implicating him in money laundering, misusing funds from Cruella's estate, forging the Crown Prince's signature, and misusing a Royal Seal. Jureau was not confident it'd be enough to indict him without deposing him and his accountants.
They just needed to find him and hope he hadn't already fled the kingdom to someplace they don't have an extradition agreement with the UKA.
One of the butlers had seen the Agents out, Malevola had stood in the drawing room and waited long enough that she was confident the agents were not only out of the house, but in their vehicle and on the road.
"Do we need to contact Duckworth?" Malevola asked the empty room.
The large portrait of Judge Dimsdale de Vil against the silk wallpaper that was almost floor to ceiling, the first de Vil of note, swung open. Out stepped her son Cecil, whom she had lied to agents of the Crown of his whereabouts.
While he and his mother may have their disagreements, de Vils stood together, and he was confident she would not hand him over. Especially since from what he overheard, she had no idea why the Crown was after him.
He also wasn't sure why, but he had so many fingers in financial crimes pies that he felt it best to hide out for a bit. He wasn't sure why his usual accountants weren't returning his calls, but perhaps they didn't trust unknown numbers since he opted to use a burner phone.
"No need to call Duckworth, mother."
"Are you sure? We do pay them an exorbitant amount in retainer. What have you gotten yourself into? Please tell me it's not something as tacky as a Banzai scheme."
Cecil bit back a scathing retort, angry that his mother would once again dismiss him, dismiss his intelligence. That he would get caught up in something as petty as a Banzai Scheme, as if he'd be fooled into someone stealing his money to pretend it was a return on someone else's investment, where in turn they'd steal from the original investors to fool him into thinking his money had doubled or tripled.
He had calmed himself enough to reply that it was no such thing, that it was a misunderstanding, but his mother had already started to leave and was never interested in his response.
Just like growing up, his mother always underestimated him. All the praise and hope had been with Cruella, but he had shown them who the true de Vil heir ought to be.
I've stolen from you and Cruella over the years, old woman. You may never give me my due, but I took it…like a true de Vil.
He thought murderously to himself as he watched his mother's retreating back.
"Cecil," his mother's cold voice rang out. "Go get changed, we're having a family dinner."
All the old muscle memories of him hopping to his mother's command, not daring to disobey had him automatically walking towards his former rooms. All of his memorabilia from growing up were gone, and in their place were tasteful linens in a muted blue. It felt more like a guest room, but it's what Malevola had turned them into once he moved out.
Of course, Cruella's belongings were still in her rooms, enshrined to keep alive the memory of the woman who used to hold all the hope and future of House de Vil.
He'd play nice, his mother was harboring a fugitive after all. Tomorrow he would book a discreet flight to Enchancia, stay at one of the de Vil vacation homes and ride out the investigation. He was certain his accountant would eventually return his calls and make things right.
Meanwhile he would have dinner like a dutiful son, probably with his inept cousin P.H. He didn't look forward to dining with the notorious picky glutton, being bored with inquiries about his bastard nephew or talks of whatever silly thing P.H. was working on.
P.H. was another thorn in Cecil's side, and another member of the de Vil family who always deferred to Cruella and propped her up as some tragic figure rather than the madwoman she had proven herself to be.
Malevola and P.H. always shrugged off Cruella's odd behavior as eccentricity. That every "genius" had a bit of madness to them, that her obsessiveness with whatever fashion had piqued her interest was just the passion for her craft. They weren't the ones who saw the sky-high invoices or dealt with confused or scared vendors whenever Cruella went on a rampage.
But Cecil knew, and he knew that she would be the downfall of their family. She had to be removed lest they lose everything. He would show them all why he should have been considered the heir.
He had removed Cruella to the Isle, he had made the political connections to the High Royal Family. He had kept the family afloat while Cruella languished in the royal penal colony. He heard their snickers though, how Cruella would have been better with the money, how House de Vil or the various investments just weren't as lucrative as they could have been. He knew they still saw him as working for Cruella as an executor rather than an executive in his own right.
He wasn't sure what exactly had set off the inquiry by HMRC, and he cursed his mother for ignorantly mentioning the letters "from" the Crown Prince. He was certain it would also be pursued by the agents as to why the official state letterhead with His Royal Highness' Royal Seal was used for a minor pet project of the prince with a commoner family.
He could only hope that because King Adam had been party to obtaining said letterhead, that the King would come up with a reasonable explanation and help him with whatever little problem had arisen with HMRC. It was King Adam's idea after all, so certain that no one would ever question the Crown Prince. Their fates were tied together by their secrets, it would behoove King Adam to make this little inquiry go away.
Cecil believed he just needed to lay low for a while in a nice tropical locale that didn't extradite. He knew that the wealthy were often targets of audits, but he couldn't take the chance one of his many misuses of Cruella's and Malevola's, money would be brought to light. He had enough money tucked away in secret foreign accounts to live a luxurious life. He didn't worry about his children as they had trust funds, and as they were spoiled brats he wasn't inclined to provide anymore.
He didn't agree with his mother on most things, but he was also skeptical of their desires to pursue the life of social media influencers. He did disagree with her that they should have to go to college in order to receive their education trust fund. He thought it was a waste of money as their grades were more the result of the private schools catering to the rich and getting their money's worth and guaranteeing alumni donations. The university they attended, or Diego would attend with his sister in the Fall, was more of the same.
If it were up to him, he'd fold the education trust fund into their general trust fund, then wash his hands of them. They would either be smart enough to make the money last or they wouldn't. He had seen them to 18 and he didn't really think he owed them anymore than that in his lifetime. They have had all the advantages money could buy; it was their fault if they didn't make use of them. If either of them had shown interest in the family business, then he would have taken them under his wing. Only he had married a vapid gold digger that was living off alimony, and she had produced spoiled kids who thought money came from nowhere. Neither were interested in what he or their grandmother had to say, so he was not interested in where they ended up in their bad choices.
He would be fine, he just had to get through dinner.
Mealtimes with the de Vils were always a production, more theatre than a meal. They ate in the grand dining hall, had to dress as if they were dining with the Royal Family, and it was always several courses.
It surprised Cecil when the food was laid on the table, rather than served by the butler and under-butlers from serving trays.
He helped himself to a pre-dinner cocktail from the alcohol table, also self-served which made the hairs on his neck stand on end. He tried to think if he'd seen a servant since he went up to get dressed and he couldn't recall. As with most servants, they were better not seen unless they were needed but his mother normally had someone manning the drink table.
He poured himself a gin and tonic, and nervously paced the dining hall.
He stopped at a painting that he was certain was new.
Construction on Hell Hall began in 1889 and finished in 1895. Caliban de Vil had taken the time during the construction of his massive abode to tour the 18 Kingdoms back when there were separate kingdoms. It was the fad at the time to build colossal mansions, the common rich trying to emulate their noble and royal peers in wealth.
When building an insanely large house, one had to fill it with insanely expensive furnishings. This would include chairs, tables, lounges, ornate beds, and art; specifically statues and paintings.
The de Vils had portraits done of important family members since the beginning of their wealth. Even with the advent of photographs, it was still a tradition to have family and individual portraits done.
There were no individual portraits of Cecil or his children, it certainly let the family know whom Malevola had deemed worthy to adorn the ancestral de Vil home.
He knew there was one of Cruella, he had been pleased to see that it was not in any obvious place or any of honor. And he knew neither would Cruella's bastard grace the halls of Hell Hall.
In addition to portraits, there were also a few still lifes and landscapes. He wasn't a collector of art, he preferred his money to stay in its vault, so he couldn't name any one artist. He was only aware they were all oil paintings, original and commissions.
Malevola would not be caught dead with a recreation.
Cecil sipped his drink, wondered where everyone was, and stood in front of the new painting. He wasn't a common visitor to Hell Hall in the last decade, but the painting was definitely new and not Malevola's normal taste.
He could only describe it as bleak, even if the details were exquisite and seemed almost life like.
The main focus was a dilapidated shack, with dirt crusted windows that barely let in any light. What light there was, it seemed to be in an overcast with hazy cloud cover. A muddy chartreuse film covered everything.
There was a lone gnarled tree that gave but one ruby red apple, the lone pop of colour and an equally sad looking goose that had to be destined for the chopping block next to a sad little stack of chopped wood.
The door was barely on its hinges and was open to a dusty room with what looked to be a slapped together stove made of spare parts.
It gave him a sense of unease and he wondered what his mother was thinking, buying such a painting.
"Dreary, isn't it?" a soft voice startled him out of his musing, he had almost dropped his drink.
"That's one way of putting it," Cecil tried to be neutral and pretend his mother didn't nearly give him a heart attack. "Who is it by, it's not your normal taste."
"No one you would know," and it grated on him that she would dismiss him so easily. It may be true that it was not someone he would know, but by her flippant tone it was because she thought he was uncultured and wouldn't know anyone, not that the artist was new on the scene.
"When I saw it, it filled me with such sadness. The poverty, the struggle to survive on so little."
If he didn't know any better, he might actually think his mother developed some sort of compassion. He was glad that his mother was lost in thought, looking at the painting because he was certain he had a befuddled look on his own face.
She must be going senile. Maybe I'll stay in Auradon and try to convince her to write a favorable will. I certainly don't want her to give everything away to some gods forsaken charity or that mongrel bastard.
"Well, it's certainly a large painting. I hope you didn't pay too much for it," it was his own backhanded way of saying she probably wasted her money. "Is the dining room an appropriate place for such a painting?"
"It's not large, it's grand," she scoffed at her son, he was never one to appreciate truly fine things, only things that appeared to be refined. "I thought perhaps it'd be a good reminder for us to be grateful for all that we have."
"We don't have to be grateful for things we worked hard for," he dismissed his mother's fanciful notions.
Cecil was too busy nursing his drink and staring at the dread painting to see the fleeting look of loathing on his mother's face. It was gone as soon as it appeared, and she took a moment to admire the painting.
"It really is exquisite, the artist is still finding her true technique but I have no doubt that her pieces will be priceless in the future. I can boast I have an early original, the mark of a true de Vil is the ability to see the true value in things…even when others cannot."
It was the last dig in the millions he's heard over the years. He couldn't wait until the night was over. There was no point in arguing with his mother, and he certainly didn't want to give the spiteful old witch a reason to cut him out of his rightful inheritance. Instead of speaking, he downed the rest of his cocktail and was about to get another when he heard a petulant voice,
"Where is everyone? I'm starving."
If there had been anything in his highball glass, Cecil would have spilled it. The house was so quiet without the bustle of servants and of course the luxurious carpet hid any pending footsteps.
Cecil scoffed and rolled his eyes,
"We've been waiting on you," he pointed out to his insatiable cousin.
P.H. rolled his eyes and didn't pay any mind to Cecil, he immediately went to Malevola and had embraced her warmly,
"Dearest Aunt," he then gave her affectionate small kisses on both cheeks.
Cecil tried not to let it show how irritated he felt when his mother showed more respect and affection to his cousin than she ever did him.
All because P.H. had gotten a Doctor of Sciences and started his own research and development firm that specialized in snack food. He didn't think it was all that special that his gluttonous cousin figured out a way to monetize stuffing his face with junk food for a living. It was one of Cruella's first investments and it had proven to vastly add to the already impressive de Vil wealth.
P.H. had made it a career to stuff his face and allow others to do the same. There wasn't a food brand in Auradon that didn't have at least one de Vil patent that allowed snacks to have optimal nutrition. What once were considered empty calories, snacks could be delicious and healthy.
Malevola had always respected that P.H. was his own man and his wealth from his own endeavors. Cecil had tried to point out that P.H.'s seed money was still de Vil money, even if he paid back the initial loan and a high return on Cruella's investment.
While Cruella and P.H. were off gallivanting with their own pet projects, it was Cecil who managed all of it. Did they thank him? Of course not, for some reason a measly MBA was nothing compared to innovation.
If he wasn't there to deal with invoices or help file the patents, where would they be?
Well, it's their own folly. Since they refused to give me my due, I simply took it.
He did his best not to look too smug with himself, but it was not lost on either his cousin or his mother.
They all sat down, Malevola at the head of the table and normally Cecil would sit to her right, but she had guided him to sit in full view of the awfully depressing painting.
P.H. sat across from Cecil and looked at the food spread across the table with curious eyes.
"Why is the food already out? Did all the servants quit?" he was only half joking, but it was rather odd for a de Vil dinner. Of course, not having someone serve him did not make him miss a step as he helped himself to some honeyed chicken and a mix of purple and orange carrots cooked in butter.
Cecil was surprised that his favorite meal had been cooked.
"I gave them all the night off, I thought perhaps we needed a private family dinner," she made a pointed look at her son.
"Ah, does this have something to do with getting a visit from some agents from HMRC?"
Cecil ground his teeth at P.H.'s smug look.
"What, get caught up in a Banzai scheme?"
"I would like to point out that I manage all of the de Vil investments along with Cruella's estate," he ground out. "I would appreciate it if you both would stop assuming I'm some imbecile when I've been the one who've kept this family's wealth flowing."
When P.H. snorted, Cecil was about to slam his fork down and have harsher words with his cousin.
"That's enough, both of you. We're de Vils, we stand together," Malevola hadn't raised her voice, but both men were used to deferring towards the matriarch.
Cecil wanted to scoff, to finally let his mother know exactly what he thought of her and their entire insipid family.
When the family name and fortune was threatened, she had cowed easily enough and abandoned Cruella to her fate.
Where was Malevola when he brought his concerns over Cruella's mental state? Where was his mother when he had graduated with honors? When he started his own business management firm? Where was she when he steered every de Vil asset back into profit when Cruella was banished, and their name dragged through the mud?
She was where she always was, praying at the alter she put Cruella on. He had graduated with honors, but Cruella had been valedictorian. He created his own firm, but Cruella had made a fashion house, invested in P.H.'s Research and Development firm, and a myriad of other investments that left Cecil in her shadow. Malevola was too busy mourning her favorite child's banishment to see how hard he worked to keep them wealthy, she barely even noticed they had almost run into money troubles.
And what thanks did he get? Nothing, all she could think about was Cruella's bastard. Cecil had married from a proper family and had an heir and a spare, both true born de Vils to carry on their name and legacy, did Malevola care?
No, she wanted to pretend they were a tight knit family that was going to get through their troubles.
He wanted to blurt out every scathing thought that was running through his head, but he opted instead to down a full glass of the red that had been provided on the table.
He looked to the side of his glass as he put it back down, the smooth dry wine settling warm inside his stomach. It was thankfully a nice balanced wine with a hint of bitterness to offset the rich food. His idiot cousin tended to only drink sweet wines with every meal.
I suppose I ought to be thankful there are actual vegetables on the table instead of whatever carb loaded slop that man-child will only eat.
Cecil liked to think himself a connoisseur of fine wines, it was one of the investments of Cruella's that he had thrown himself into, and he was rather proud of his vast wine collection and state-of-the-art cellar.
Normally the wines would be properly decanted and in an ornate glass decanter, but with Malevola "gifting" the night off to the staff, it was in its own bottle and merely opened. He doubted they waited the proper amount of time to let the wine breathe, and he wasn't in the mood to do his usual ritual of tasting new wines.
He especially was not in the mood to deal with P.H.'s childish barbs of how he thought Cecil was pretentious and how the rules of wine tasting were made up.
Cecil grabbed the bottle and read over the simple label.
"Veritas Wines?" he questioned his mother, "I haven't heard of this vintner before."
"You wouldn't," and he almost died of shock at her lack of condensation. "They're new, local and they do micro batches."
That's when Cecil would wish to scoff, and some distant part of him was surprised when he had done so. He almost felt giddy to let the jeer escape his throat, so used to pushing it down.
If his mother or P.H. noticed, they gave no indication.
He poured himself another glass, unsure of why his hands were moving on their own, but he did want to keep chasing that warmth that was spreading throughout his body.
The wine went easily down his throat, smooth as water. He didn't bother to savor it, although he was detecting notes of apple and some sort of bitter herb, perhaps elements of chartreuse or campari? Unique, but he brushed it off as just another run of the mill hipster endeavor; a startup that experimented with different non-traditional ingredients to simply say they were non-traditional.
Again, without so much his own say-so, he poured himself another and downed it just as quickly. He dug into the food, in a happy place of his favorite food and a belly warm with wine.
They ate in silence for a few moments, both P.H. and Malevola looking for signs from Cecil if the wine was working as intended.
"What have you been up to?" the matriarch asked her son, trying to encourage things along. To most, it was a typical question for small talk, with the visitation of the agents, it was a loaded question.
"I've been trying to get ahold of my idiot accountant. Thankfully I have connections within all the major financial institutions and got a tip that I was being investigated. It's a sealed investigation, so they weren't able to get much, but I presume it's about all the money I've been embezzling from Cruella's estate and your own investments. All of you like to mock me and my accomplishments, but neither of you can tell your ass from a hole in the ground when it comes to financial or itemized expense reports. Have you even looked at anything I've ever given you? Obviously not or you're dumb enough to think ₣100,000 for bathroom renovations several times a year. Or that ₣10,000 for test equipment for your lab that I had Googled were needed."
He snickered to himself at his clever deceptions.
"Oh you two, think you're so smart. Not smart enough to realize I've been siphoning off millions of francs every year since Cruella has been banished. As long as you're draped in gaudy day robes and tacky turbans, and you're able to keep stuffing your disgusting face with sugar and lard, you just can't be bothered with the details, can you?"
P.H. and Malevola couldn't deny they were none the wiser of Cecil's thievery, but it was less about not reading the details and more that they had trusted him as a son and cousin to not steal from them.
They would not make that mistake again.
Some part of his mind was prickling under his skin, desperately reminding him exactly who he was with, his own precarious situation with the law, and that he ought to shut up.
Somehow the warmth was louder, his mind floating on the good feeling like a raft upon a lazy river.
"Is that it, you've been embezzling funds from your family?" P.H. asked, far more casually than someone who had just been insulted should be.
"They probably also found all the funds I've been funneling through the Department of Isle Affairs to launder the money and pay for lobbyists," Cecil rolled his eyes, the entire thing was so absurd and stupid.
Like I'm the only one who embezzles or greases palms to get laws through the Chambers.
P.H. didn't even have to ask follow up questions, the wine finely loosened Cecil's tongue and he was all but happy to spill all of his secrets.
"Because that idiot Huntsman got himself killed, probably in debt to loan sharks, the Crown is shoving its nose into the whole ordeal beyond just my personal finances. And of course that idiot King Adam doesn't know how to steer his people away, too busy trying to act as if he's not some magic tainted mongrel to the public. Him and king Christopher got too greedy, cut too many corners when it came to the Isle. All to save a few coins and get their dicks wet in Isle whores," Cecil was a bit bitter at how careless the royals were.
Everyone around him was so careless, he didn't mind when it served his needs to steal from them, but he did mind when people got sloppy and didn't cover their tracks.
"Those snobbish bastards probably think they're so untouchable because for some reason we collectively agree a crown means something and didn't think to cover their asses better."
Cecil's hand gestures were getting erratic, waving his fork around as if it were a magic wand and getting food flung in all directions.
If he weren't so happy and content, he would wonder why his mother wasn't admonishing him and in fact looked rather placid.
"Now I have to hope my incompetent accountant can cover my ass while the royals dither. I need to use the family jet, probably best to lay low in Enchantia for a bit. I especially do not want to be questioned about the Crown Brat's stationery," Cecil had himself a good giggle about how much trouble he would be in, but he was fairly confident that his wealth would see him through.
"And why would they question you about the stationery?" Malevola asked, as innocent as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.
"Ugh," he petulantly grunted at his mother, something he hadn't done since he was a teenager. "I can't believe you told them about that, it was supposed to be a private family matter. At least that's what I was banking on when King Adam stole it for me. We had thought that no one would question the Crown Prince, but you guys are so adamant about seeing that half-breed bastard and we had to throw you off the trail."
Cecil didn't notice Malevola or P.H. tighten their hands around their steak knives, he was too busy pouring out every thought that went through his head with nary a desire to reign them in or claw them back.
"I don't know why you're so interested in a monster's by blow that Cruella whored herself out to, but that little bastard was a threat to everything I've worked so hard for. If you actually meant for me to hand over twenty years of my hard work, then you had another thing coming. I don't care if it's that golden cunt's money, she has no need for it on the Isle. And I'm the one who has managed it all this time. It's my money, that is why I filtered it out through the Department of Isle Affairs and offshore accounts. Why should that bastard see a farthing of it? He has done nothing besides be born when he should have died."
Unbeknownst to Cecil, the lights started to flicker and Malevola and P.H. looked at each other worriedly.
"King Adam owes me. He wouldn't be king if not for my campaign contributions after the end of the Fae Wars. Everyone looks down on me for not being Cruella, but I've had the most influence in shaping the U.K.A. Magic is all but banned because of de Vil coin. Adam should be kissing my feet. With all the money I've given over the years, I should get more than just that one favour. He clearly has had the better end of the bargain."
Letting every confession out felt so good, it was a weight on his shoulders he didn't know he had been carrying for so long. These secrets that had been in his heart, it was almost euphoric to let them out.
Malevola and P.H. had mostly remained quiet, as Cecil needed very little prompting from them.
"What favour did he grant you?" Malevola couldn't help but ask, the question past her lips before she could tell herself to let Cecil hang himself with his own rope. She had an inkling of what it was, perhaps it was something she had suspected for a long time and didn't want to think her own son was capable of.
Her stomach turned sour at the Cheshire grin that appeared on Cecil's face and the self-satisfied chuckle that escaped his throat.
"Banishing Cruella, obviously. All of you and Auradon were so willing to play along, to paint her a villainess equal to fae and a wizard and witch that brought kingdoms to their knees. Even I had a hard time believing you all would be so stupid as to think Cruella actually deserved banishment. She paid someone to steal a bunch of mutts, she didn't even get to the point of killing them. And this was after all the exotic animals she already had turned into several garments. No one gave a crap when she skinned a score of minks for her enormous coat, but puppies were beyond the pale apparently. With one strategically placed psychiatrist stating she was competent to stand trial, a friendly judge, and paying a few newscasters to tell Auradon to 'think of the puppies' and run several episodes of Too Cute, Cruella was out of our way. I did us all a favour, mind you," his condescension thick as he poured himself another glass of wine and drank it all in one gulp. "Cruella would have been the end of this family sooner or later, mark my words. You lot would have been content to turn your head away from her erratic behavior until she ran us into the ground. I was the only one who could see her for who she truly was, a hyped-up dress maker with several screws loose. Her and her bastard are better off on the Isle. Out of the way and forgotten."
"Did you know about Carlos?" P.H. needed to know, just how low did his cousin go. How petty and vindictive was he that he would really sentence a child to the Isle just because he held a grudge against his mother?
"Of course, I knew about Carlos, I wasn't about to leave anything to chance. Especially since King Adam had allowed Charmington guards and others clandestine visits to the Isle for whores. Some even nobles and royals. The last thing I needed was for Cruella to get up the duff with a noble bastard and convince the idiot to bring him to the Mainland. When he was born and my informant was adamant that it was a monster that sired him, I thought it best to leave him to his fate. Certainly, that narcissist would have killed the little brat with neglect if the poor conditions of the Isle didn't get him regardless. I didn't think Fisher would be such a cuck and raise a monster's seed."
Malevola was speechless, her son spoke of his nephew and sister as if they were mere annoyances; flies to swat at with impunity and kill for simply existing.
"And then that idiot Crown Prince Ben and his weak soft heart. He actually brought Isle trash to the Mainland and wants to what? Parade them about as proof of his kindness? More like proof of his total lack of ability to govern."
The more Cecil spoke, the harder he started to stab at the food on his plate. He imagined it to be Crown Prince Ben's head, and every other person who has gotten in his way.
The wine was warm in his system and the world was just him in his haze. He didn't notice the hoarfrost that started to creep along the floor or that his and the others' breath could be seen in the air.
Ice soon followed and it was too late for Cecil to escape by the time he was frozen from the waist down. The French doors to the dining hall was opened with an icy blast, and there stood four teenagers with murder in their eyes.
Carlos stood in the middle with the dark fae by his right. His hair was wild and his eyes blood red, fangs peeked out from his snarled lips and razor-sharp claws itched to dig into Cecil's throat.
The fae's hands were aflame with green hellfire, her eyes blazed the same.
There were two other teens with them, one with blue hair and the other long black and tied up into a bun. Halos of blue and gold light emitted from their forms.
These were incredibly angry magical beings and Cecil quickly deduced he was the focus of that ire.
Fear cleared his mind of the wine's effects and he struggled to free himself from the burning ice that trapped his legs. When freeing himself from his icy shackles would not work, he grabbed the gold-plated steak knife and tried to wield it as a dagger, manically hoping it would somehow stop the four from hurting him.
"Go, run and get help!" he cried to his mother and cousin, hoping they were not yet trapped and could get help.
It took him a few moments to realize they were not moving, and it wasn't because they were trapped. When he really looked at his family, he saw there was nothing impeding them, and they didn't even look afraid.
In face of angry magical teenagers, they looked disappointed in him.
They were judging him, like they had done his whole life.
"What is this?" he demanded, anger overcoming his fear for a few seconds.
Malevola didn't know what to say. She knew Cecil had done something shady, knew he had to be working against Carlos and Cruella by extension. She had no idea it went this far, that her son was willing to let his nephew, her grandson, die at the mercies of the Isle.
It wasn't even through apathy, but calculated and malicious intent. All for what? Money? He did it to control what he had not built nor put in his blood, sweat, and tears?
"I believe this is what some would call a 'reckoning,' dear cousin," P.H. explained as if Cecil were simple.
Carlos had stared at Cecil, a predator unsure what to do with his prey. He could so easily kill him with one swipe of his claw, perhaps he'd practice some of his newly discovered powers and freeze him to death. They had an initial plan, but it didn't seem good enough with all that had come to light.
"Carlos," his grandmother sighed, unsure if she could through to him and if she were honest with herself, unsure if she wanted to stop him.
The de Vils were a ruthless bloodline, it was just rare that they would have to turn that onto one of their own.
"Please remember that magic abhors little more than a kinslayer," she warned him. Those with magical blood operated under different metaphysical laws than humans did.
"He's not my family," Mal reminded the group as she brought her flames close to Cecil's face. He flinched at the heat, but Mal did not come close enough to actually burn him.
Cecil was Carlos' to get revenge on.
"Just say the word Carlos," Mal offered, and they'd be done with him.
He looked towards his grandmother, and he felt himself soften. Regardless of everything, Cecil was still her son, and he knew it had to hurt her that her family had turned on itself in such a way. He had a cool enough head to want justice, real justice and not whatever Auradon called justice for those wealthy enough to buy the best attorneys.
They had already seen what money could do, Cruella was still rotting on the Isle.
"We'll do the original plan," he said simply.
"Plan? What plan?!" Cecil demanded as if he had any kind of leverage or right to know such a thing.
P.H. shrugged his shoulders as if he didn't care if Mal killed Cecil or if they kept to their original plan.
Malevola, however, relaxed a bit. Whatever that could be said of her, she was not a kinslayer. She believed Cruella and Carlos deserved justice, more so given what Cecil had done.
The teens pulled his chair from the dining table and surrounded him, with Carlos facing him head on. They raised their hands and the world seemed to still as magic started to pulsate in the air.
"You can't do this!" he shouted, whatever they had planned, he knew it couldn't be good.
He again tried to struggle his way out of the ice, but his legs had become numb, and the ice wasn't going anywhere.
"Mother, please!" he begged, tears freely falling from his face. His voice small, something she had not heard since he was a child.
No matter how long he was a man grown, Cecil begged for his mother when he was in trouble.
P.H. and Malevola had stood aside, both somber and silent as Cecil received judgement.
Each teenager was whispering something, they couldn't understand but from what Mal had told them earlier it was an ancient dark fae spell.
Malevola had expected thunder and lighting, perhaps the earth itself would move under such a spell but it was much less dramatic than all of that.
The teens' eyes had turned pitch black, and they continued their low whispers. The murmurs seemed to multiply and bounce around the room, a cacophony of sighs from the pits of hell.
Malevola and P.H. had felt time slow, the whispers faded into silence and their eyes grew heavy.
They had merely blinked and when they opened them, Cecil was gone.
The ice had retreated and there was nothing left of her son other than a half-eaten plate of his favorite meal and an empty wine glass.
P.H. and Malevola walked to the new painting, it was the same as it ever was with its sad little shack and dreary weather. The only thing different was the presence of a man.
He had his hair tied back with a deep pointed widow's peak, dressed in his finest suit. Any stranger would know he was a de Vil by his mostly black hair that was broken up by a fine line of white down the middle of his head and beard.
Despite his bespoke designer suit, he was down on his knees in the mud. His face frozen in a horrified scream, with his hands reaching out towards them in a pleading manner.
"Can he see us?" Malevola wondered as he looked like he was begging someone to come help him.
"I don't know," Mal answered as she joined them, as the spell came from her family's grimoire. "The Book doesn't say, and no one has ever come back from this spell."
Malevola had accepted that answer and looked back to the painting. It was frozen in time, and it would be Cecil's punishment.
She wondered if it would have been more merciful to have simply killed him, kinslaying aside.
Then she remembered the fury in Mal's eyes, and their own spies had reported none had seen the two boys who had been banished to the Isle weeks prior.
The dark fae walked over to Carlos and taken him into her arms and while Malevola couldn't hear what she was whispering to him, she understood that Mal would have done anything for Carlos to have his revenge.
Magical banishment to a copy of the shack Cruella currently lived in was probably the least harmful spell the Le Fay's had in their dark history. She would never know for sure, and she didn't want to know. Carlos chose the punishment and Cecil faced judgement.
In the coming years, the painting remained in the grand dining hall. When the de Vils had balls or stately dinners, people always commented on it. When asked, the de Vils gave different answers.
Sometimes it was to boast of Mal's talent, and she had painted what she knew.
Sometimes it was to remind de Vil children to be grateful for what they had.
Sometimes they admitted it was where Carlos had grown up, and it was to remind him where he came from and what he survived.
Whatever the answer, the guests would always coo about how talented the fae was and gave their own interpretation of what it represented as small talk.
They never had many repeat guests and those that were normally didn't pay enough attention to the painting to realize that it changed each visit.
Sometimes the man was out chopping wood or slaughtering the goose.
Sometimes he stood in the doorway, his face stained with tears and hopelessness.
One time, the man had hung himself from the gnarled apple tree. Carlos wondered if Cecil would disappear, but the next day they saw him sitting in the shack with his head in his hands.
More years went by and the small line of white in Cecil's hair had widened. His back had become crooked, and deep lines marred his face.
When the man in the painting finally disappeared, no one commented on it.