“Oh yeah, her. I forgot.” Jay dug into his jeans pocket and brought out a silver necklace with a red poisoned-apple charm on it. “That’s all she had on her. I’m telling you, even the castles around this place are dumps.”
Jafar put on a pair of spectacles and examined the jewelry, squinting first with one eye, then with the other. His eyesight was going, and his back ached from the extra work of carrying around his own sweatsuited belly; even villains were not spared the perils of aging. “Paste and glass. In my day, a servant wouldn’t have worn that, let alone a princess. Not quite the big score we’re looking for.” He tossed the bauble aside, sighing as he stopped to feed Iago another cracker.
“Score,” said Iago, gleefully spitting cracker crumbs. “Big Score!”
Jay’s shoulders slumped.
The big score.
It was his father’s dream: that one day his only son would find a cachet of loot so big, so rich, so laden with gold, that Jafar would no longer have to preside over a junk shop, ever again. 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.
Talk about delusional.
Even if it did exist, could such a treasure take any of them back in time to a better day, or free them from a lifetime of imprisonment? As if an object or a jewel or any amount of gold coins could fix the mess that people like Jafar had gotten them all into, in the first place?
The big score. His father was as crazy as Mal had been tonight. Jay shook his head.
And then he just shook. Because he’d thought of something.
Hang on.
What had Mal told him tonight? That the raven believed Maleficent’s scepter, the Dragon’s Eye, was hidden somewhere on this island? If Diablo was telling the truth, and Jay was able to find it, it would be the biggest score of the year. Of the century! He thought it through. Was it possible? Could it be that easy? Could his father have been right to hold on to the faintest hope for something better, even after all these years?
Nah.
Jay rubbed his eyes. It had been a long night. There was no way that thing was on the Isle of the Lost. There was nothing of power here—not when it came to people, and not when it came to their stuff.
And even if it was here—however unlikely that might be—the dome over the island kept out all magic out. The Dragon’s Eye was just a fancy name for a walking stick now. Like he’d told Mal, it was a useless enterprise. They were better off trying to hijack a boat out of the Goblin Wharf back to Auradon. Not that any of them would want to live there.
Maybe we belong on the Isle of the Lost, Leftover, and Forgotten. Maybe that’s how this story is supposed to go.
Only, who’s going to break the news to my dad?
Jay watched as his father returned to stacking the coins in neat piles. Counting coins gave him peace in some way his son would never understand. Jafar was whistling, and looked up when he saw Jay staring at him.
“Remember the Golden Rule?” his father purred as he caressed the money with his hands.
“Totally. ’Night, Dad,” Jay said, heading to the worn carpet underneath the shelves in the back, where he slept. Whoever has the most gold makes the rules. It’s what his father believed, and while Jay had never seen any gold in his life, he’d been taught to believe it too.
He just wasn’t sure that he believed there was any gold to find. Not on the Isle of the Lost. Still, as he curled up on the hard bit of carpeted floor that was his bed, he tried to imagine what it would feel like to find it.
The Big Score.
He fell asleep dreaming of his father bursting with pride in a pair of pajamas made of gold.
Cruella was going to kill him if she ever found out he’d thrown a party while she was away. People on the island kept telling him Cruella had mellowed with age, that she was rounder and less shouty, but they didn’t have to live with her.
Cruella De Vil’s son knew his mother better than anyone.
If his mother had any idea that he’d let a bunch of people come over…and even worse, let anyone even come near her fur closet—let alone inside it—let alone be tackled in a pile of full-length grade-A–pelt coats—well, let’s just say it wouldn’t be a puppy she would be trying to skin.
But thankfully his mother was still at the Spa and hadn’t returned unexpectedly as she was wont to do sometimes, if only to keep her son and Jasper and Horace on their minion-y toes.
Carlos stumbled out of bed and found a few bleary-eyed guests wandering around Hell Hall, smelling like last night’s spicy cider. “You’re probably looking for the bathroom. This way. No problem!” He shoved them out the front door before they could realize what was happening. As he did, Harry and Jace, the two young, second-generation De Vil minions who had helped him decorate for the party, stumbled out of the ballroom with crepe paper in their hair.
“’Morning,” said Carlos, his voice still froggy with sleep. “Why are you wearing the party?”
“I told him not to get me tangled up in his stupid streamers,” Harry said, still surly.