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explain herself if there was another way. And that brought up another problem.
    Calliope wasn’t called the Oracle for no reason.
    She could see the future.
    So if I was planning to barge in and start accusing her of murder, she’d see it coming. And if she was guilty, it would mean she’d be ready for me. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t want to go head-to-head with an immortal being who was older than recorded time if she knew to expect me.
    For the time being, I was stuck in old-school PI-research mode. I had to find Kellen, and I had to prove Calliope hadn’t killed the pizza boy. Without supernatural help.
    All before the full moon next week, if I could.
    No big deal.
    I started with the murder investigation, trusting Keaty would stay true to his word and ask about Kellen with his sources. Nothing says serious detective like showing up at a Papa John’s at eleven o’clock at night on a Thursday.
    “What can I get you?” A bored-looking teenage girl snapped her bubble gum and stared through me like I was invisible.
    “Did you know Peter Giambi?”
    Now I had her attention. “Petey?” Her expression fell, and genuine sadness replaced her ennui. She’d liked him. “What do you want?” she demanded, her tone suspicious.
    “I’m a private investigator working with his parents.”
    “You have a badge or something?” Man alive, when did teenagers stop being blindly trusting? I pulled out my PI license and showed it to her, not bothering to hide the holstered gun under my jacket.
    “Did Peter have any regular runs? Places he delivered to all the time?”
    “Sure, we have a few regulars. People who order two or three times a week. It’s New York, lady, no one cooks anymore.”
    Sad, but true. A lot of people in the city viewed their ovens as a wildly unnecessary waste of good bookshelf or closet space. My own kitchen was about the size of a shoebox.
    “Did anyone request him by name?”
    The girl—her nametag said Becca—shook her head. “No, ma’am. We have a real serious policy about that. If a customer requests a specific delivery driver, we send the manager instead. It’s a safety thing.”
    I was impressed. They took care of their staff here. Too bad it hadn’t helped Petey.
    A man was standing behind me now, the smell of him woodsy, like pine and dirt. I bristled. He was a werewolf, and I didn’t need to turn around to know he wasn’t part of Lucas’s pack. I slipped a card out of my jacket pocket and handed it to the girl.
    “If you could make a list of any locations in the Hell’s Kitchen area Petey delivered to on a regular basis, that would be helpful to me.”
    She took my card and gave an enthusiastic nod. I could tell the idea of helping in the investigation of Petey’s death was important to her.
    “I’ll let you get to your other customers,” I said.
    “What other customers?” Becca replied.
    When I turned around, the werewolf who had been standing behind me was gone.

Chapter Eight
    Stepping into the cool night, I was on edge.
    I was also expecting the attack.
    Expectation didn’t make the punch across my face hurt any less.
    The werewolf had at least been smart enough to wait until I was away from the small line of businesses and had crossed the street towards a darker area where nothing was open. I’d smelled dirt before he hit me, but the punch landed square on my jaw, knocking my head to the side and making me see stars.
    This bugger was strong.
    I staggered and regained my footing, but he was already on the move. I tried to get a fix on his scent. Having met all the wolves in both Lucas’s and Callum’s packs, I was certain I’d be able to tell if he belonged to one or the other. He smelled completely foreign.
    Ducking, I avoided the next swing and darted a fist into the meat of his belly. He swore and stumbled backwards. I reached for my gun, but he’d righted himself and dove at me, knocking me back into the wall, smacking my skull against the brick.
    “Who are