Rosalyn swallowed hard. There was clearly something human left in these people, but she couldn’t let them get near other humans or they would simply spread the Foxfire farther and farther. No doubt that was the goal. Of the Foxfire, of course, but now of its hosts as well. Her heart clenched with pity, but there was something else, too . . . Revulsion. Dread. She had seen the fury in Rayan’s and then Piero’s eyes when the creature inside them took over. Mother, or so they called her. Bizarre. The flash of white eyes . . . the total lack of humanity . . .

Shuddering, she watched the man ahead of her move deeper into the research vessel. She hadn’t yet caught a glimpse of his face, but there was a tired stoop to his shoulders. The others had fallen in behind him immediately, and so she could only deduce that he was the last male crewmate, the captain. Where was Misato, she wondered, and what would happen when they reached wherever he wanted to take her?

A fire extinguisher wasn’t going to do much damage against three grown men. She needed a new weapon and she definitely needed a better plan.

Reason first, she cautioned herself. You’re outnumbered, remember?

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, trying to keep her voice as neutral as possible. But even she could hear how small, how terrified she sounded.

“We’re going to talk in private while Piero gets his face figured out,” the man ahead of her said. He hadn’t introduced himself, and didn’t seem interested in speaking until they found that privacy. His voice was pleasant, confident, low and almost musical.

“I won’t hesitate to defend myself,” she warned him.

“Clearly.” The captain managed a short laugh, shaking his head. “Piero never had a pretty face, but now?”

“Eh, I can hear you,” Piero groused from behind her.

She had to agree with the captain. The tall Italian had a face as friendly as a hatchet, deeply lined, with a too-big nose and a razor-sharp chin. He was probably someone’s taste, someone who courted trouble. In the dossier picture he had ice-blue eyes, not so very different from the glowing orbs shooting daggers at the back of her head. His crude swagger reminded her of . . .

No, she couldn’t think about Glen just then. It all felt too close, too similar. She hadn’t been outnumbered in Conference Room B, but he had sixty pounds on her and the red-hot dangerous fire of a man enraged burning away inside him. It almost made her laugh, thinking how she had been afraid of Walters and their close quarters aboard the Salvager 6; now that seemed a million miles away, and quaint by comparison. God, Walters. They had killed him. He was out there spinning and spinning, shattering into smaller frozen pieces until he was nothing but dust.