"The Isle of the Lost" by Melissa de la Cruz, Chapters 12–18

He shivered, retracing his steps through the grim backstreets and alleyways of the town, past the eerily bare trees and broken-shuttered buildings that looked as abandoned and hopeless as everyone who lived there.

She had her whims, but they never seemed to last. That was the good thing about Mal; she would get all worked up about something, but totally drop it the next day.

If twenty years of being frozen could turn a raven cuckoo, twenty years of life among the lost had done just as much to diminish the former Grand Vizier of Agrabah’s infamy, along with his grandeur and panache (at least, that was how his father thought of it).

Gone were the sumptuous silks and plush velvet jackets, replaced by a uniform of ratty velour sweat suits and sweat-stained undershirts that smelled a little too strongly of their shop’s marketplace stand, which was located, rather unfortunately and quite directly across from the horse stalls.

Iago had taken to calling him “the Sultan,” since Jafar now resembled his old adversary in size; although, in all fairness, Iago himself looked like he was on a daily cracker binge.

No matter that the Isle of the Lost was a floating rubbish heap; somehow Jafar believed the big score was always right around the corner—a bounty that could transport him back to his rightful place as a sorcerer, with all its power and trappings.

The gloomy morning light made everything look sadder and more sordid.

He was hungry, his head hurt, and he hadn’t slept well—dreaming anxiously of keeping the party a secret from his mother, but also of the dazzling light that had emanated from his machine and hit the dome.

Carlos filled a bowl with some congealed, lumpy oatmeal and grabbed a spoon just as the Gastons stuck their heads inside.

Sure, she was plump and middle-aged and no longer resembled the formidable portrait of her that hung in the main gallery, but she was far from ugly.

Even the crack on her ceiling was starting to look like the Dragon’s Eye.
Mal stared up at it from her bed, transfixed.

Mal didn’t exactly have an army of evil resources at her command. She made do with what she had to work with—stolen paint cans, hapless high school kids, a closet full of old mink coats and fur traps.

It was still quiet in the Bargain Castle, which meant Maleficent hadn’t gone out on the balcony yet to harangue and humiliate her subjects.

She was adamant about getting eight hours of “evil sleep” and recommended a healthy diet of nightmares to keep the claws sharp.

That had always been her mother’s specialty—putting people to sleep against their will. Of course, that hadn’t exactly worked out during the Sleeping Beauty debacle, but that didn’t mean that the Dragon’s Eye staff would be any less powerful now.

Carlos remarked once that it must have been a huge sacrifice for him to give up Auradon, but the crotchety old wizard shrugged and said that he didn’t mind and that he had a responsibility to teach all children, good or bad.

“If science is in fact magic, i.e., per se, could one then correspondingly and accordingly posit the postulate that magic is thus, ergo, to wit, also science, quid pro quo, quod erat demonstrandum, Q.E.D.?”

“If science is in fact magic, i.e., per se, could one then correspondingly and accordingly posit the postulate that magic is thus, ergo, to wit, also science, quid pro quo, quod erat demonstrandum, Q.E.D.?”

“If science is in fact magic, i.e., per se, could one then correspondingly and accordingly posit the postulate that magic is thus, ergo, to wit, also science, quid pro quo, quod erat demonstrandum, Q.E.D.?”

After bombing on his Evil World History exam, Jay ducked to hide from an evil step-granddaughter, who waved to him coquettishly, making him late for his Enrichment class.

The stone monstrosity, commissioned by Maleficent herself, took up more than half the landing between the school’s second and third basement levels, and had become one of Jay’s most reliable hiding spots.

“One can shoplift at the bazaar, or burglarize a home, or steal a rickshaw. But these are, of course, petty exercises. Mere child’s play.”

You expected more? You and everyone else on this island, Mal thought sullenly.

“I need you to really put your dark heart and foul soul into it. Come up with a truly wicked scheme. One that will bring you to the depths of depravity and heights of wicked greatness of which I know you’re capable.”

Even a sappy hug couldn’t get to her now. She couldn’t wait to get started. Evil waited for no one.

Jafar made a valiant attempt to take back his dignity, and pulled himself up to stand and brush the dust and detritus from his hair.

Mal narrowed her eyes at Jay, mentally berating him for not having found a suitable place for them to talk privately.

Jafar took a seat on one of the long, low couches and motioned for them to make themselves comfortable on the ottomans.

“But why would it be here?” Jay asked, leaning forward on his knees and looking at his father intently.

Evil Queen was so excited to be back in the village, she was running from storefront to storefront, saying hello to everyone and filling her cart with all sorts of age-defying elixirs and new beauty regimens.

She knew she couldn’t trust Mal, and she had an inkling that Jay was behind her missing poison-heart necklace.

“Yup, the vultures who brought it said the goblin who found it swore it’s from one of the Auradon castles,” Evie said, handing him a pillow in a blue silk pillowcase with a royal insignia.

Mal crossed her arms, looking stymied. Carlos knew that look—it meant she was about to explode. What if Mal thought they were just pulling her leg? Letting her think they had made a discovery, when all along they were just making fun of her?

In the end, it was Maleficent who wanted to reclaim her scepter, not just Mal; and if word ever got back to the Mistress of Darkness that he had opposed or hindered the search in any way, he might as well start calling himself Slop, because that’s what he would be.

Her mother was a famous beauty in a land of famous beauties, and so it was only to be expected that Princess Audrey, daughter of Aurora, was gifted with the same lilting voice, lovely thick hair, swan-like neck, and deep, dark eyes that could drown a prince in their warm embrace.

A dove alighted on Audrey’s shoulder, cooing sweetly.

“Dad says I have to hold another meeting to fix it. He’s disappointed, of course, and he’s had to send conciliatory gift baskets of his favorite cream cakes to everyone who was there, so he’s not in the best mood. You know how much he likes his cream cakes.”

“I love rose gardens,” said Audrey with a smile. “And I love the ones with topiaries shaped like adorable creatures.”

“They said I was rude,” he lamented. “And I was.”

“Perhaps, darling, they should have considered that before undertaking a life of evil and villainy—which could only lead to an eternity of punishment.”