CII
"The next Angel Wings Cruise is in three days to the Bahamas," Irene said. "We'll pick up these papers tomorrow morning and have your paperwork ready in the afternoon. In the meantime, you can pack vacation clothes, enough for a week of fun in the sun. Pick easy to remember names and plausible identities, like dance instructor, or nurse. Something that can be backed up easily with a phone call. We'll keep the cat for a week. The scientists want to run a few tests. I put the cat into his carrier and handed him off to Cole with a bag of cat food and some toys. It'll be the first time the kitty was away from our sides since his transformation.
Irene's tone shifts into that brisk, mission‑brief cadence you've come to recognize — the one that means the situation is already worse than they're letting on.
"The next Angel Wings cruise is in three days," she says. "Bahamas route. Seven days, round trip."
Three days.
Not much time to prepare — and even less time to figure out how to keep a mirror‑king from causing an international incident.
She hands over a slim packet of forms.
"We'll pick up these papers tomorrow morning and have your finalized identities ready in the afternoon. In the meantime, you can pack vacation clothes — enough for a week of fun in the sun."
The hat‑man perks up at fun in the sun like a cat hearing a can opener.
Cole continues, "Pick easy‑to‑remember names and plausible identities. Dance instructor, nurse, accountant, florist — anything that can be backed up with a quick verification call."
The hat‑man immediately raises his hand like a kid in class.
"I want to be a dance instructor."
Irene presses on. "We'll set simple background details for you to memorize. Nothing complicated. Just enough to blend in with the newlywed demographic."
She glances at the hat‑man again — still barefoot, still glowing with smug delight, still wrapped around you like a decorative vine.
"If this is supernatural," she says carefully, "we'd like it solved without additional loss of life. If there are dangerous entities involved, the other team will handle containment."
Cole nods. "Your job is reconnaissance. Blend in. Observe. Identify the threat."
The hat‑man leans down, whispering in your ear, "We'll be the cutest newlyweds on the ship." He beams as I push him away. "Come on, call me hubby."
Irene clears her throat, trying to maintain professionalism while clearly fighting the urge to stare at him again.
"We'll return tomorrow morning," she says. "Please have your preferred names and cover occupations ready."
Cole adds, "And try to keep him from… glowing. Or sharpening. Or whatever he does."
The hat‑man gives Cole a dazzling smile.
"No promises."
The agents leave with a mix of urgency and relief, stepping out into the fading evening light.
The door closes. The house goes quiet.
The cat snores in his sun patch.
The hat‑man wraps his arms around my shoulders from behind, chin resting lightly on my head.
"A honeymoon cruise," he murmurs. "I've always wanted one."
I sit him down and go through the paperwork with him, they'd be back for it soon.
He twirls the pen between his fingers like he's onstage again, every movement a little flourish, a little performance. The sunlight catches in his curls, and for a moment he looks exactly like the theatre boy he once was — bright, golden, too charming for his own good.
"I'd like to be real with you, darling," he says, leaning in with that earnest intensity he uses when he wants something. "I want you to call me by my name. Not hat‑man. A real human name."
You raise a brow. "The name from when you were alive?"
He shakes his head, curls bouncing. "No, that life is done. Call me by my stage name."
You sigh. "What was that?"
He straightens, proud as a peacock.
"Daryll. Daryll Dukes. The Dancing Daryll Dukes. Isn't that fine?"
You nod. "That's fine."
He scoots closer immediately, chin settling on my shoulder like he's been waiting for permission to invade my personal space.
"I want you to moan that name."
I punch him lightly in the ribs.
"Joker. Why would I moan your name."
He grinned, "It's our honeymoon cruise. Of course we'd be making love darling. Moan it, scream it, swear to the gods by it. Your choice." He brushed his lips against my neck.
I push him away, exasperated.
"I swear, give you an inch, you take a mile."
He laughs — bright, delighted, unbothered — rubbing the spot where you hit him like it's a badge of affection.
"Daryll Dukes," he repeats, savoring it. "Your husband‑to‑be on a cruise. Your undercover partner. Your—"
I glare.
He stops mid‑sentence, grinning.
"Fine. I'll behave. For now."
But the sparkle in his eyes says he's already imagining every possible way to make this undercover assignment as chaotic as possible.
And the cruise is only three days away. I would only pack for myself. The hat man could change his clothes at a thought. Sometimes being a spirit was very convenient.
Cole takes the cat‑carrier from you with the seriousness of someone accepting a nuclear briefcase. The tuxedo cat inside gives a single offended mrrrp, clearly aware that his fate has been sealed for the next week.
Cole sighs. "I'll take good care of him. Double duty. Liaison and cat‑sitter."
I can already picture him trying to negotiate with the cat like it's a foreign diplomat.
Irene steps forward, flipping her tablet to the next page. "I'll be part of the couple on the ship. My partner will be Agent Kaito Tanaka — international clearance, maritime authority, and a license to kill over Pacific waters."
I blink.
The hat‑man — Daryll Dukes now — whistles low. "Fancy."
Cole shrugs. "There are special permissions for everything. I don't have that one."
Irene's expression is calm, professional, and just a little smug. "Surprisingly, I do."
Daryll leans toward you, whispering, "Your government is scarier than my mirror realm."
He grins.
Cole adjusts the cat‑carrier strap. "We'll handle the logistics. You two just show up tomorrow with your cover identities ready."
Irene hands you a final sheet. "Preferred names, occupations, backgrounds. Keep it simple. Keep it believable."
Daryll twirls the pen again, already scribbling something dramatic.
I snatch it away. He pouts.
Cole nods toward the door. "We'll be back in the morning."
Irene gives us a last, assessing look — then a quick glance at Daryll, who is now stretching like a cat, curls bouncing, looking far too pleased with himself.
The agents leave.The door clicks shut.
Daryll flops onto the couch, arms spread wide, curls spilling everywhere.
"A honeymoon cruise," he says, smug and delighted. "With my darling wife."
I throw a pillow at him.
He catches it without looking, smiling like he's already imagining the chaos he'll cause on international waters.
"Maybe we can practice our honeymooning?" He looks up at the ceiling, obviously imagining something nefarious.
And the cat, now in Cole's custody, lets out a distant, mournful mrrrp as if sensing the storm that's about to unfold.
Daryll practically preened when you wrote the name down — as if the ink itself was a coronation. He sprawled across the couch, chin in his hand, watching you fill out the forms with the kind of dreamy attention usually reserved for romance dramas.
I wrote:
Diane Dukes.
Mrs. Diane Dukes.
It did sound musical — soft consonants, warm vowels, a name that could slip easily into a cruise's newlywed registry.
The chosen occupation: physical therapist.
A stretch from my history major, sure, but I'd researched enough online to fake it convincingly. And honestly, after everything you'd done for the hat-man in his new flesh body, it wasn't even that far off.
I'd treated Daryll's feigned sprained knee last week — the one he got from trying to pirouette off the kitchen counter "because gravity is a suggestion." He'd sat on the floor, pouting, while you wrapped his knee, and he'd wooed me shamelessly over the bandages. Of course it was fake, he was a spirit after all, but I'd bandaged it anyway just in case.
"Oh Diane," he'd sighed dramatically, "your hands are magic."
"They're literally just hands," I'd said.
"But they're your hands." He held one to his chest.
I'd rolled my eyes so hard I nearly sprained something myself.
Now, as I finished the last line of the form, he scoots closer, chin and arms landing around me like a cat claiming territory. So clingy. I shrugged him off.
"Diane Dukes," he murmurs. "My wife."
I shift, shoving him lightly. "Undercover wife."
He grins. "Same thing."
I ignore him and keep writing.
He leans in again, whispering, "You know, darling… I sprained my knee again."
You don't even look up. "No you didn't."
He flops dramatically onto the couch. "I did. Emotionally."
I toss the pen at him.
He catches it mid‑air, twirling it between his fingers with dancer's precision.
"Fine," he says, stretching out like a lazy cat. "But on the cruise, you'll have to pretend to adore me."
"I already pretend to tolerate you," you say.
He beams. "Progress. We still have to practice more honeymoon things."
My eyebrow quirks. Maybe this was a bad idea.
The cat‑carrier is gone with Cole. The paperwork is ready. The identities are chosen.
And in three days, you'll be boarding a luxury wedding cruise with a barefoot mirror‑king who insists on being your husband.
This is going to be chaos. Three days passed by quickly.
The Angel Wings rises in front of me like a floating palace, all white hull and gold trim, glittering under the late‑morning sun. I can hear the music before I even reach the gangway — steel drums, laughter, the clink of champagne flutes. Newlyweds everywhere, glowing with that soft, smug happiness that comes from matching rings and matching luggage.
I tug my suitcase behind me, the wheels rattling over the dock. The air smells like sunscreen, ocean salt, and the faint sweetness of tropical flowers woven into the welcome garlands. A photographer snaps pictures of couples kissing under a banner that reads "Angel Wings Wedding Voyage — Love Takes Flight."
Daryll walks beside me, barefoot as always, though he's wearing the linen shirt I forced him into. His curls bounce with every step, and he looks like he belongs here — like he's been waiting his whole life to board a ship full of honeymooners.
He leans close, whispering, "Smile, darling. Newlyweds don't scowl."
I elbow him lightly, but I do smile — mostly because the ship is enormous and dazzling and loud, and stepping onto it feels like crossing into another world entirely.
The gangway vibrates under my feet as we ascend. Crew members greet us with bright smiles and floral bracelets. Someone hands me a glass of champagne. Someone else hands Daryll a chocolate‑covered strawberry, which he eats in one bite, licking sugar from his thumb like he's auditioning for trouble.
The moment I step onto the deck, warm air wraps around me like a welcome. The ship hums with life — music drifting from the pool area, laughter echoing from the atrium, the distant thrum of engines preparing for departure.
I glance at Daryll.
He's already waving at strangers, charming them with that dancer's grin, playing the role of doting husband with infuriating ease.
I take a breath.
I'm Diane Dukes now.
Physical therapist.
Newly married.
On a week‑long cruise to the Bahamas.
And somewhere on this glittering ship, something is killing couples.
But for now, all I can do is step forward, let the sunlight hit my face, and pretend I'm just another bride beginning her honeymoon.