The day he achieves the point where he doesn't gag at the texture of meat rolling against his mouth's warm walls, trapped between gum and teeth, going down a throat turned perpetually dry and burnt -- the day he swallows it with disgust as just an afterthought, he doesn't celebrate.

Louis knows now: no matter how he dresses or behaves, he won't be a carnivore.

But what he wants isn't to transform into a creature easily consumed by mindless hunger; what he wants is their raw strength, crushing bites and natural claws, but since he can't have them, he'll be among and above those who do -- which means, he thinks, as he sets down his wine and cuts into flesh again, always doing what is necessary to rise above survival.