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32
“Thank you,” Rebekah said.
He smiled again, as serenely as if they were not
surrounded by weapons, dangers, and death. “My name
is Captain Moquet,” he told her, his eyes flickering to her
hands as if he was looking for something—and then she
realized that she had forgotten to take that damned woman’s
wedding ring, and her daylight ring sat on her right index
finger. It wouldn’t be possible to take the large stone off, as
it was what allowed her kind to walk in the sunlight, but
she chided herself for not being more careful. “But call me
Eric. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about your
attackers? I see that they have stolen your ring?”
“Yes,” Rebekah replied with deliberate eagerness. “I feel
so strange to suddenly be without it.”
“I understand, Madame,” Eric assured her with such
conviction that she wondered if she had inadvertently
compelled him without realizing it. Then his hazel eyes
turned to the dead wagoner, and every trace of softness—
everything human—disappeared from his face.
He approached the corpse, and the soldiers stepped
back. He leaned down, his long fingers tracing the wounds
Rebekah had inflicted without quite touching them.
“Bandits, you said?” he queried, pointing toward the short
blond soldier without looking away from the dead body.
A few of the men glanced nervously at Rebekah and then
away again. Some shifted uncomfortably. She had heard one
of the men refer to him as “the new captain.” How well