Chapter Text
Agrabah airport is surprisingly quiet. Apparently a lot of flights were cancelled in the wake of the Isle escape: people are sticking close to home right now.
Not that Phoebus can blame them. Agrabah has fared better than most kingdoms, being about as far as one can get from the Isle without leaving Aurdon, but it’s not entirely out of reach. Turning on his phone, he reads a news article about a decrepit inventor who tried to launch an attack downtown just two hours ago. Granted, the attack lasted for all of two minutes – ending when a magically-trained officer turned the ‘doomsday weapon’ into a bouncy castle – but the point remains. The next villain might not be so incompetent, or unlucky. People have good reason to be scared.
Snow joins him at the arrivals gate, dragging her luggage with one hand and rapidly texting with the other.
“I’d better not see any of this on social media,” he warns her.
“Don’t be ridiculous. My blogging days are well behind me. I’m a serious journalist these days. Just letting Florian know we’ve arrived. I promised him I’d keep him informed.”
“Hmm. What does he make of all this?”
“He thinks I’d be better off staying in Misthaven until this all blows over, but he understands why I have to come.” Snow pauses and adds pleasantly: “I am taking Evie when it’s over. Just in case you had something else in mind.”
Phoebus shakes his head. “I couldn’t stop you if I wanted to. But you might give some thought to the person whose opinion does matter.”
“Who?”
“Evie. Just because you’ve decided that you want to make up for lost time doesn’t mean that she will, or that she’s going to see you as anything other than just another person trying to force her somewhere she doesn’t want to be.”
Snow’s mouth clenches. “I’ll take it under advisement,” she says, which is the most politely worded fuck-off that Phoebus has ever heard. Mentally he shrugs and lets it go; he’s said his piece and it’s not his job to fix the family dramas of the Misthaven royals.
Outside arrivals there’s a man waiting with a sign and Phoebus’ name. He leads them out to the carpark where a dark car is parked.
“Get in, the both of you,” snaps the broad-shouldered, bearded man in the backseat.
“Hello Razoul,” Phoebus says with a resigned sigh. He doesn’t like dealing with the Police Captain of Agrabah. To be fair, not many people do. The man has the temperament of a badger that’s just been kicked in the balls. Even on a good day, he’s difficult to deal with, and today is far from a good day.
Phoebus and Snow put their luggage in the boot, and he lets Snow enter the car ahead of him before getting in and closing the door behind them. “Thank you for coming to meet us,” he starts. “I’m aware the circumstances aren’t–”
“What the fuck is Beast playing at?” Razoul explodes. “Is he trying to start a riot?”
“The situation has been poorly handled,” Phoebus replies carefully. “If I could talk to Jasmine–”
“The Queen has more important things to do than listen to Beast’s second-hand excuses. Right now she’s busy trying to smooth over this cluster-fuck with the magical community.”
“Are things that bad?” Snow asks.
Razoul might have no qualms about tearing Phoebus a new one, but he has a weird respect for royalty, even former royalty. His tone is slightly more courteous when he answers her question:
“They’re questioning why two of their children were denied basic education on their own physiology, to the point that one of them landed herself in a coma.” He glances at Phoebus and snarls: “Wonderful job there, by the way. Really, fucking amazing. Tell me, was Beast deliberately trying to kill them, or is he just that incompetent?”
“There was a misunderstanding about the seriousness of the matter,” Phoebus replies, finally managing to finish a sentence. “Beast didn’t understand the potential consequences.”
“Right. So incompetent it is.”
Phoebus grits his teeth and doesn’t argue the point. “Have you made any headway on finding Evie and Jay?” He asks instead.
“We’re working on it.”
“Have you tried magic? Apparently they’re giving off magical signatures–”
“We know how to deal with magic, Phoebus. This is Agrabah, not some superstitious inner kingdom.” Razoul pauses a beat, scowling before admitting: “The djinn community know where they are. They’ve made it clear we’re not to interfere.”
Phoebus blinks and Snow says, sounding startled: “They can do that?”
“They have semi-cosmic powers. You want to argue with them, go ahead.” Razoul rubs sweat from his brow and Phoebus has a sudden insight that this isn’t his usual bad temper. He’s worried. Really worried. “Do you know how many djinn children there are?”
Not sure what to make of the sudden tangent, Phoebus says cautiously: “Not really, no.”
“Neither do I. It’s the closest guarded information in Agrabah. If you want to know the reason – and don’t want to sleep at night – go look up how much money a pure-blood djinn child goes for outside Auradon. Last year we had seven attempted kidnappings. One made it almost all the way to the border before the djinn caught up.” Razoul’s mouth twisted. “When we got there, the guy was a gibbering mess. He’s in a prison nursing home somewhere, drooling into a jello cup.”
Phoebus’ stomach twists at the visual. Snow looks a little bit sick.
“The djinn play nice,” Razoul continues. “For the most part. They keep to the speed limit, pay their taxes… But they have their triggers, and their kids are one of them.”
Phoebus takes the point. “Probably better not to push them right now,” he says, and sees Razoul’s expression relax just the tiniest fraction.
“That’s my thinking.”
Phoebus thinks it’s a little hypocritical that the djinn are only taking an interest in Jay now, once it’s all gone public. Perhaps it was his father’s identity, or that half-blood didn’t merit the same protection as a full-blood in their eyes…
…but then, until recently Jay was on the Isle. Any would-be kidnapper brave enough to risk the wrath of villains itching for an outlet would still have to find a way past a Barrier no one had penetrated in almost twenty years. And when Jay finally did make it to the mainland, the oldest and most powerful djinn had just coincidentally happened to accept a position at his school, moving all the way across Auradon for it.
“Have they said anything about Evie?” Snow asks.
“Just that she’s with him and doesn’t look likely to split off. You want to know more, you can ask the blue bastard when we get to the hospital.”
“Hospital?” Phoebus says, startled. “What’s happened?” The last he heard, Mal was unlikely to wake up for at least another day or so and Carlos had yet to be released by his treating doctor.
The smirk Razoul gives him is not reassuring. It’s the look of someone about to dump a crisis in someone else’s lap.
The hospital is as busy as the airport was quiet. They’ve had an influx of patients who were hurt in the recent attack, as well as reporters who keep trying to get a quote or a photo of Maleficent’s daughter.
“Keep your head down,” Razoul tells Phoebus and Snow as the car pulls up. “Don’t make eye contact, just keep walking until we’re inside.”
“You act like I haven’t done this before,” Snow says with some humour, unbuckling her seatbelt.
Phoebus privately wonders if they shouldn’t have taken the back entrance. The second they get out of the car they’re instantly bombarded with an avalanche of questions.
“… is it true that Malady Raven assaulted…”
“…any comment regarding the allegations of child abuse…”
“…has Beast indicated his position on the succession of the Moors…”
Phoebus keeps his expression blank and continues through the crowd until he’s safely inside the hospital doors. Snow shakes her head as the door closes behind them.
“I suppose it was a matter of time until it resurfaced,” she says.
“Until what resurfaced?” Phoebus asks, looking around for the signs to intensive care.
Snow starts to answer and is interrupted by an orderly walking up. “Captain Razoul? This way.”
He leads them through the winding halls of the hospital. Just when Phoebus is hopelessly lost, the man opens a door and ushers them into a nearly empty waiting room.
Over by the empty helpdesk are a cluster of figures. There’s a fight brewing, Phoebus thinks even before he takes in all the details. It’s a gut-level instinct, based on years of dealing with drunk partygoers and petty criminals. If this were a pub back home, he’d say someone was on the verge of throwing a punch.
There are two ordinary-looking men in suits standing with two other people who look almost… reptilian. (There’s really no other way to say it, in his defence.) They’re covered in dark scales like monitor lizards, without hair or eyebrows, their fingers tipped in dark claws.
Both humans and not-humans are facing down Coach, who looks pissed. He’s blocking their way and there’s blue energy gathering at his hands. The air is charged like an incoming storm; Phoebus could swear he can smell ozone and feel the crackle of static electricity all along his arms. The hair is rising on the back of his neck.
“Mother-fuckers,” Razoul swears. “They brought fucking mukhtar here!”
The word tickles Phoebus’ memory, but he has no time to ask what it means. Razoul is storming over to the brewing crisis.
“What in the blazes do you think you’re doing!?” He roars.
The two men in suits turn toward him. The reptile people and Coach don’t break off their staring contest.
“We’re agents from the Royal Bureau,” one of the men starts. “We have the right to–”
“Shut. Up. I’ll deal with you later.” Razoul focuses on the two reptile people. “You. Mukhtar. You need to leave.”
There’s very little reaction. “We’ve been contracted,” one says in a hissing sort of voice. “We do not break contract.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck about your contract. If you start a fight in here, I will make the Isle look like wishful thinking. That includes you too.” This is snapped at Coach.
For a long few seconds the three eye each other. Then the mukhtar step back, nod politely at Razoul and walk away. Coach watches them go, the magic not fading from his hands until they’re out of sight.
“You have no right to interfere,” one of the men starts. “We have authority from the Royal Bureau–”
Razoul brutally interrupts him. “Do you have any idea – any idea what almost happened here? Twenty years of peace down the drain because you two maggot-heads think you can walk into this kingdom and do whatever the hell you like! I ought to throw you in the palace dungeon and…”
As Razoul’s tirade continues, Phoebus murmurs to Snow: “Do you know what a mukhtar is?”
He expects her to be as confused as he is, but she surprises him. “A very strange type of fay, completely immune to magic.”
“Really?” Now he’s heard of everything.
She nods. “Their ancestors worked as trackers and bounty hunters, specialising in magical targets. It’s led to a lot of tension between them and the rest of the magical community, especially the djinn.”
“They hunted us,” Coach interjects coldly. Phoebus hadn’t realised he was listening. “They couldn’t use the wishes themselves, but they saw no problem hunting and selling children into slavery to fatten their purses.” He’s absently rubbing his wrist again, something terrible in his gaze.
“Their ancestors,” Snow points out gently. “Modern mukhtar have to obey the freedom act like everyone else.”
Coach directs a flat look at her. “I can’t tell you how unhelpful that is right now.”
Pink touches Snow’s cheeks and she accepts the rebuke with a nod. “Point taken.”
Phoebus wonders how the magical community have reacted to mukhtar forcing their way into a fay girl’s hospital room. Not well, he’d bet. With things already charged, this might have been the spark to ignite something much worse.
“Razoul,” he says, as the man finally pauses to draw breath. “Let me talk to them.”
“In a minute!”
“This is what you brought me here for,” Phoebus points out.
Razoul’s nostrils flare and he glares at Phoebus furiously before finally gritting out:
“Fine. You, Coach or whatever you’re calling yourself these days, a word.” He jerks his head toward one of the rooms, and after a moment, Coach follows him in. Snow hurries after with an apologetic look at Phoebus.
Once the door closes, Phoebus turns to the two men and switches to French. “I’m Captain Phoebus. Beast sent me.” The Crown Bureau is situated in France, so most of its agents are from there, or nearby kingdoms. All are required to speak the language of the royal court.
“Yes, sir,” the younger one says cautiously. His French is slightly accented, a little overly precise in the way of someone who’d learned it as a second language. “We were told.”
“Good. Now, would one of you care to explain what just happened?”
The older agent – a solid man with silver-streaked hair – scowls. The younger one replies: “We were trying to collect De Vil for questioning.”
Phoebus frowns. “Why?”
The two agents look at each other. “No one told you why we’re here?”
Phoebus shrugs, not wanting to admit how very little Beast had told him. “They skimmed over the details.”
“The Bureau assigned us to find Jafar. Past patterns suggest he’ll return to this city to pick up where he left off.”
“What does that have to do with Carlos De Vil?”
“Jafar’s son. If anyone knows where Jafar is, it’s that kid of his. We need to question him, but he’s in the wind, and De Vil’s the person who saw him last.”
Phoebus follows that train of logic back. “So you want Carlos to find Jay to find Jafar?”
“Exactly.”
It’s not exactly without merit, Phoebus supposes. Jay would be his first starting point too. Kids have a way of finding out things, especially the things they weren’t meant to. Going by Jade’s penchant for eavesdropping, Phoebus wouldn’t be surprised if Jay knew a lot of very interesting information about his father. That said…
“You are aware that breaks the Families Act? The crown can’t detain or question a minor without permission of their kingdom.”
The older agent shrugs and says with a hint of condescension: “They’re not citizens though. They’re Isle-born.”
“They are citizens,” Phoebus tells him, trying not to take too much pleasure in the way the man’s smile freezes.
“No, they’re not.”
“I assure you, they are.” Phoebus sees their exchange of panicked look and asks with some exasperation: “Did you even check before starting this?”
“We didn’t think we needed to!” The second agent sounds frustrated and disgusted in equal measure. “Okay, we’ll contact their home kingdoms and–”
“No,” Phoebus says. “You’re going to drop this line of enquiry.”
“No offence, Captain, but you don’t have the authority to give us orders.”
“Beast gave me complete discretion. Do you really want to explain yourselves to him?”
The first agent grimaces. Beast’s temper is infamous amongst his underlings. The second agent’s lips press together, then he says coldly: “Fine. If you’re happy to let Jafar go free, by all means.”
It doesn’t give Phoebus any peace of mind to know the man has a point. The thought of Jafar free to wreak his rage on innocent people – any people – is enough to make him break out in a cold sweat.
“Look,” he yields. “I can put the request through Razoul. If all goes well and the boy lets himself be brought in without incident, the djinn might – might – allow us supervised access. Best I can do.”
From the look on their faces, it’s not a satisfying resolution, but they also know they have no choice. Phoebus switches to his next question:
“One other thing. Why the mukhtar?”
“Oh, them…” The second agent makes a dismissive gesture. “Yeah, they’re creepy little weirdos, even by fay standards, but they’re about the only thing that can make a genie back down.”
Phoebus’s eyebrows rise sharply. “Did that look like backing down to you?” He gestures to where Coach had been standing. The surface of the wall and floor has been subtly warped, dented inwards slightly, the paint slightly melted. Given how much control Coach has showed up to this point, that’s a terrifying slip. Or – even more terrifyingly – entirely deliberate.
There’s a stubborn set to the agent’s mouth. “He was interfering with a Crown investigation.”
“So you figured you’d pit two races with a violent history and magical powers against one another in a hospital and wait to see what happens?” Phoebus doesn’t wait for an answer. “Just… just get out of my sight. And find another way to locate Jafar.”
“What the hell are we going to do now?” Martin snarls as they walk out of the hospital. It had been such a good idea too, to use the kid. Now they’re back at square one.
“We follow the plan,” Thomas says. “We find Ophidion.”
“Why bother? We can’t detain him. We can’t even question him without fifty miles of red tape.”
Thomas stops, giving him a contemptuous look. “You want to give up because we hit one little speed bump?”
“No. I just don’t see where we go from here.”
“Use your brain. Where are we right now? Agrabah. Ten miles west, we’re no longer in Auradon.” Thomas’ mouth curls into a smile. “We get him across the border, technically we’re not breaking any laws. Anything goes.”
Martin stares at his partner in consternation. The older man’s jaw is set in that way that means trouble, his gaze ahead like he saw some straight, clear path in front of him. Martin had always admired that tenacity until now.
“That’s kidnapping. They could Isle us for that.”
“Only if they ask too many questions, and they never do.”
Martin is silent, hating that he’s right. The higher-ups never want to know how things get done, so long as it doesn’t tarnish their heroic image. This is far from the most questionable thing they’ve done, though it does come the closest to defying an order from the throne.
“Say I agreed to this,” he says finally. “We still have to find Ophidion.”
“We can find him.”
That’s not Thomas’ voice. Martin jumps, badly startled to find that the mukhtar have managed to walk up to them unseen at some point during their conversation. The mukhtar give them impenetrable looks from those inhuman eyes, the one on the left repeating:
“You want to find the djinn child? We can find him.”
Thomas frowns. “How?”
“Magic.” The mukhtar’s nose twitches. “We track magic. If the djinn child is anything like the fay girl, he will be uncontrolled in his magic and easy to find.”
“Why didn’t you say earlier?”
A flowing sort of shrug. “You did not ask.”
Martin has the sudden insight that the mukhtar don’t like them, that they find this arrangement as distasteful as the agents.
“Let me guess,” he says sourly. “You want more money.”
A slow, amused blink. “As you say.”
He shares a look with Thomas. “Fine,” the other agent says after a second. “How much?”
Phoebus steps inside the hospital room cautiously.
It’s a large double room with bright sunlight streaming through the windows. Coach and Razoul are over by the windows, engaged in a quiet, if heated, conversation. Snow is standing by the bed, one nail caught worriedly between her teeth as she looks down at the comatose young girl.
It takes Phoebus a second to recognise Malady Raven. He’d heard so much about her the past few days, seen the photos and even video footage, that it’s a shock to see her so still and pale. Her unconscious face sets a sharp contrast to the oxygen tube under her nose, the canula in her arm, the beeping machines at the head of the bed.
On the second bed, curled up under the covers, is a sleeping boy. Carlos De Vil. Someone has gotten him to take a shower and into a clean set of pajamas, but he still looks like he’s been through the wars. His sleeping face is bruised, a sticking plaster over one eyebrow, and a splint on his hand.
“I forget how young sixteen is,” Snow says quietly. “I left home at sixteen and thought myself very grown up, but in hindsight, I was still a child.”
Phoebus nods silently. He’s thinking of his own kids and how their lives might have turned out had fate gone differently, growing up in the cracks of a world that didn’t want them, raw and angry and desperate for help they didn’t know how to ask for.
Over by the window, Coach and Razoul wind up their discussion. Razoul departs, with a grim nod at Phoebus. Coach gives both him and Snow that same penetrating stare as when they first met.
“Captain. I’m surprised Beast sent you. I was expecting someone less… reasonable.”
“I asked for the assignment,” is all Phoebus says. He gestures. “Shall we sit?”
They pull up chairs by the window. The conversation is delayed when a nurse stops in briefly to check Mal’s vitals and give them all a sharp warning look. Or rather, gives Phoebus and Snow a warning look. Coach gets a warm smile. Clearly, the staff have their favourites.
Once she’s gone, Coach glances over at the second bed and raises his voice: “Carlos, do you want to be part of this discussion?”
Phoebus starts to tell him to let the boy sleep, but Carlos opens his eyes so quickly, it was clear it had been a ruse. He glares at Coach, one side of his hair flattened from the pillow, before shoving back the covers to sit up.
“Will it make a difference?” He says, tone hostile.
“It might,” Coach says agreeably. “You’re welcome to stay, or if you’d rather go, I can give you money for the vending machine.”
That sparks a hint of interest in Carlos’ eyes, though he tries to hide it. Teenage boys are the same everywhere, it seems. Ruled by their stomachs.
“Vending machine?” He says, playing for casual.
“Down the hall.” Coach makes an odd gesture, like he’s curling his wrist, pulling something out of thin air, and suddenly there’s a small white cat in his hand. He holds it out to Carlos. “Take her with you. If someone bothers you, she’ll let me know and I’ll come right away.”
Phoebus wonders if giving Cruella De Vil’s son an animal was such a good idea, even a fake one. Then he sees the careful way Carlos handles it, cupping it against his chest like he’s afraid to drop it. The cat turns into his grip to rub it’s face against his chin, sparking an involuntary smile that he immediately tries to hide.
“And if I don’t come back?” He says in a clear challenge that Coach ignores.
“Then you don’t come back. She’ll find her way back to me when she’s ready.” He hands Carlos a couple of notes. “If they have coffee, get me one. Black with two sugars.”
Carlos stares at him suspiciously, clutching both money and purring cat. Then, without a word, he turns and heads out the door. Once it’s closed behind him, Snow says quietly:
“Was that a real kitten?”
Phoebus is glad someone had asked the question, and doubly glad it wasn’t him.
“It’s real,” Coach replies. “My eldest, Dhandi, works re-homing strays as magical service animals. That particular one was trained to support abused children.”
Well. At least they aren’t dancing around the issue.
Phoebus clears his throat after a moment. “Well. I think everyone can agree that the children need support beyond what the school can provide.”
Coach nods slowly, thoughtfully. “What did you have in mind?”
It’s not too hard to find the vending machines. There’s a tired-looking woman squinting at the buttons for the coffee so Carlos hangs back, waiting for her to finish.
He wonders what the adults are talking about in Mal’s room. Maybe he should have stayed like Coach said he could, if just to know what was going on.
But Carlos was tired of having grown-ups talk at him. First it was the nurses and doctors, who kept taking scans and samples and then coming back with more prying questions. Then it was some cops who wanted his statement about what happened at the train station, and a social worker lady wanting to talk about his mother, and it was all just too much to deal with.
At least Coach seemed to have sensed that Carlos was reaching his limit, and had politely asked the social worker lady to come back later.
It was unsettling how everyone acquiesced so quickly to him here. In Carlos’ experience, no one got such extreme deference without a healthy dose of fear… except no one seems particularly afraid of Coach. They seem delighted by his presence. It’s baffling and worrying. The only people who didn’t like him were those crown agents Coach had sent off, and it’s pretty clear they weren’t from around here. Even Carlos can see that and he’s been in the kingdom less than twelve hours.
The cat pats at Carlos’ chin with a soft paw, and he realises that he’s been biting his nails. It’s hard not to when thinking about Coach. So far he hasn’t tried to make Carlos reveal where the others are going or what their plans are, carrying on as if the information was of supreme unimportance to him. That should have been reassuring, but isn’t. It suggests that, whoever he is, he’s completely confident in being able to find them whenever he wants.
The cat bats at Carlos’ chin again, then shoves her face into his neck. “Okay, okay,” he mutters, stroking her until she settles. Weird cat. But friendly enough. Nothing like the cranky alley cats on the Isle that – more often than not – were reporting back to Sheer Khan.
The woman is still blankly staring at the machine and Carlos finally clears his throat. “Excuse me?”
She blinks at him like she’s a thousand miles away, and it occurs to him belatedly that this is a hospital. She could be here to see someone who isn’t lucky enough to have a Barrier keeping them from death.
Then she says in thick Scottish accent: “Sorry, love. I’m a bit jetlagged. I keep trying to work out this thing and my brain won’t wake up…” She pokes at the buttons.
It’s almost physically painful to see someone try to work a machine wrongly. Carlos steps in to press the right sequence for her. “Black or white?”
“White. Please. Thank you.” She rubs her face as the coffee starts pouring and Carlos is struck with a sense of familiarity.
It’s not unusual in Auradon. Most kids at school are related to some famous person or another. But this woman, he can’t quite figure out. She has sharp, pale features, with a generous mouth and thick, dark eyebrows. An interesting face, he thinks, but an evasive one. Every time he thinks he’s on the verge of figuring out who she looks like, it slips away again.
“Are you famous?” He asks, figuring he might as well come out with it.
She gives him an odd look. “Not at all. Why?”
“I don’t know.” He’s abruptly embarrassed. Even Jay wouldn’t go asking a random stranger questions unless he was setting up a con. “Just thought I knew you from somewhere, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Her tone is a little strange. “I suppose… I am related to someone famous, now you mention it. But you’re the first person, other than my father, to notice it.”
“Which person?” Some royal, he’ll bet. A sister or cousin to someone at school.
She’s looking at him straight on now, an intent expression in those dark eyes. “You’re Carlos De Vil, aren’t you.”
He shifts his weight uneasily, abruptly aware of the nearly empty corridor. “Yeah…”
“I suppose this must be fate. I had no idea what to do next, and here you are, landing right in my lap.” She glances around and lowers her voice: “I’m Constance, but you can call me Malcontent. Has Mal ever mentioned me?”