Isle of the Lost (Descendants 1)

That Prince Ben wasn’t fit to the wear the royal beast-head ring that was currently on his finger.

Mal was standing alone in the corner, nursing her spicy cider, when she noticed two figures trying to sneak their way toward the buffet table to grab a couple of cans of expired sodas. It was Carlos, of course, and Princess Blueberry. Evie didn’t look any worse for wear after spending time in Cruella’s closet. She wasn’t even bleeding! There wasn’t a scratch on her or even a run in her stocking. Ugh. Carlos must have helped her somehow, the ungrateful little twerp.

Mal sighed.

Foiled again.

Just like her mother, whose own curse had failed.

Were they destined for failure forever?

This party was a bust. It was definitely time to go. Even the evil step-granddaughters looked tired of pretending to hate being chased by the rowdy pirates.

Mal tossed her empty cider cup on the floor and left without a backward glance. She spent the night rearranging her neighbors’ overgrown lawns, swapping lawn gnomes, mailboxes, and outdoor furniture. She amused herself doing some light redecorating by toilet-papering a couple of houses and egging a few rickshaws. Nothing like a little property damage to make her feel better. She left her mark on each house with the message Evil lives! spray-painted on the lawn, to remind the island people exactly what they stood for and what they had to be proud of.

Feeling as if she had salvaged the evening, it was with some surprise and not a little shock that when she rolled home to the Bargain Castle, she found her mother awake and awaiting her.

“Mother!” Mal yelped, startled to see Maleficent sitting on her huge high-backed green chair in front of the stained-glass window. It was her throne, as it were—her seat of darkness.

“Hello, dear,” Maleficent’s cold voice said. “Do you know what time it is, young lady?”

Mal was confused. Since when had Maleficent imposed a curfew? It wasn’t as if her mother cared where she went or when she came home, now—did she? After all, the woman wasn’t called Maleficent for nothing. “Two in the morning?” Mal finally guessed.

“I thought so,” Maleficent said, pushing up a purple sleeve and correcting the time on her wristwatch. She pulled the sleeve down and looked at her daughter.

Mal waited, wondering where this was going. She hadn’t seen her mother in a while, and when they did come in contact, Mal was often taken aback by how small her mother looked, these days.

The Mistress of Darkness had literally shrunk with the reduction in her circumstances. Whereas once she had been towering, she was now almost a miniature version of her former self—petite, even. If she stood up, one could see that Mal was taller than she was by a few inches.

Yet the distinctive menace had not abated, it just came in a tinier package. “Where was I? Oh yes, Evil lives!” Maleficent hissed.

“Evil lives—exactly, Mother.” Mal nodded. “Is that what you want to talk to me about? The tags around town? Pretty good, right?”

“No, you misunderstand me, dear,” her mother said, and it was then that Mal noticed that her mother was not alone. She was petting a black raven that was perched on the arm of her chair.

The raven croaked, flew to Mal’s shoulder, and nipped her ear.

“Ouch!” she said. “Stop that!”

“That’s just Diablo. Don’t be jealous my little friend; that’s just Mal,” Maleficent said dismissively. And even if Mal knew that her mother couldn’t care less about her (Mal tried not to take it personally, as her mother couldn’t care less about anyone), it still stung to hear it said aloud so bluntly.

“Diablo? That’s Diablo?” said Mal. She knew all about Diablo, Maleficent’s first and only friend. Her mother had told her the story many times: how, twenty years ago, now, Maleficent had battled Prince Phillip as a great black fiery dragon but had been struck down, betrayed, by a weapon of justice and peace that some irritatingly good fairies had helped aim right into her heart. Maleficent had believed herself dead and passed from this world, but instead she had woken up the next day, alone and broken, on this terrible island.

The only remnant of the battle was the scar on her chest where the sword had struck, and every so often she would feel the phantom pain of that wound. She had told Mal many times how, when she woke up, she had realized that those awful good fairies had taken everything away from her—her castle, her home, even her favorite pet raven.

“The one and only Diablo,” purred Maleficent, actually looking happy for once.

“But how? He was frozen! They turned him into stone!” said Mal.

“Yes, they did, those horrid little beasts. But he’s back! He’s back! And Evil lives!” Maleficent declared, with a witch’s cackle for good measure.

Okay. Her mother was getting just a wee bit repetitive.

Mal gave her mother her best eye-roll. To the rest of the fools, minions, and morons on the island, Maleficent was the scariest thing with two horns around; but to Mal, who had seen her mother put goblin jelly on toast and drop crumbs all over the couch, polish her horns with shoe polish, and sew the raggedy hemline of her purple cape, she was just her mother, and Mal wasn’t that scared of her. Okay, so she was still scared of her mother, but she wasn’t like Carlos-scared.

Maleficent stood from her chair, her green eyes blazing into Mal’s identical ones. “My Dragon’s Eye—my scepter of darkness—Diablo says it has been awakened! Evil lives!—and best of all, it is on this island!”

“Your scepter? Are you sure?” Mal asked skeptically. “Hard to believe King Beast of Auradon would leave such an impressive weapon on the Isle.”