"May I take your order, sir?"

 

He sat across from me, a strange expression clouding his face as he addressed the waiter. His articulated eyebrows rippled as he spoke, a serpentine blemish on his clean-shaven face. He wore a two-piece suit that most likely cost more than my apartment. The only sounds in the spacious dining room were the hushed conversations of the other patrons and the clattering of silverware.

 

The waiter departed without asking for my entree, leaving us alone at the candlelit table. His blue eyes, unfeeling wells of ice, seemed to dissect me. His right hand rested on his pocket. Neither of us spoke, but our presence was enough to convey a clear message.

 

I smiled and tried to look polite, but I could feel fear bubbling up through my chest. My cousin had always unsettled me, but his gaze was almost predatory now. The walls seemed to contract, trapping me like a cage of glistening pearly china.

 

I need more time.

 

The indistinct clanging of plates awakened me from my haze as the appetizer was set down; an exotic, succulent scallop dish coated in juicy marinara sauce. I eyed it curiously, whereas my counterpart quickly grabbed his knife and hovered over the dish, as if pondering something. I cautiously minced a sheet of meat off of the seafood and tasted it.

 

He sunk his knife forcefully into the fragile mollusk, leaving a jagged crevasse where it reaved. Droplets of marinara spurted from the wound, staining the table dark. He then neatly spliced the scallop into chunks and consumed them. Cleaned his hands of the splash of sauce with a white tablecloth. Staring at me the whole time with those silent, cold eyes reduced to slits.

 

I set down my fork and smiled nervously. He was perfect, every action calculated and executed, leaving nothing to chance. However, ever since my uncle died, his demeanor had worsened. Obsessed with the estate, the inheritance. Normally he controlled his temper, but sometimes his emotions could get the best of him...

 

His hand returned to his pocket.

 

The waiter returned, his uniform a stark black, with the main course on a massive platter. Two racks of lamb, charred and rich with flavor, burnished ribs half-buried in the slab of tendon. A glass of red wine complemented the meat.

 

Carefully I slid my fork into the lamb and scraped a piece of flesh from the rack. As it wriggled down my throat, I could not tell whether the frantic pounding of my chest was the beating of the lamb's frightened heart, or mine.

 

Across the table, my cousin, a familiar air upon him, began to hack stubbornly at the gristle, his knife clashing against the bone. In desperation he abandoned his utensils and picked at the lamb with his slender fingers, tearing off chunks of juicy flesh and devouring them. His face was stained with his prey, engrossed in pure fury. I could almost imagine him towering over the cowering, frightened lamb, salivating and ready for the kill. He paused and downed his wine glass, red fluid dribbling down his chin and onto his white, ruined shirt.

 

His expression was locked in a stare of primal anger, the craven mask of a starved bear with dark eyes and glistening white fangs. Cast out by his own father, named second in his will. Revenge sharpened his eyes into arrowheads that pierced me and pinned me down. Now it was too late, and the killing blow would come quickly and without mercy.

 

He was going to kill me. Take back what was his.

 

The spattered sauces and oils of the lamb mingled around the bleached bones on his plate. It was like blood, endless shades of red.

 

Then, he was drawn back into reality from his frenzied world. The once calm eyes stricken with shock as he beheld the red-blanketed tablecloth, his stained clothing, his wild face devoid of human emotion. Quietly he gazed at the desolation for a long moment, but his features hardened when he saw my barely touched lamb. Our eyes locked.

 

I gave him an empty smile, as if nothing had happened. His grimace only deepened, and I knew that I had reached the point of no return.

 

He fingered the handgun in his pocket as he signed the check. Every window and reflection pictured my death, replayed in his dreams over and over again. But I would not die cowering like the frightened lamb. Ready, I followed him out of the restaurant.

 

It reminded me of something my uncle told me once: "Everyone is a sheep. Smart sheep, desperate sheep, deluded sheep, but sheep all the same. And if you want to survive..."

 

I gripped the knife behind my back tighter in excitement.

"...you've got to be a wolf."