Amy

Intro Welcome to the omegaverse. You’ve got your Alphas (grrr), your Betas (meh), and your Omegas (aww). It’s all snarls, pheromones, and enough pack drama to fill a supernatural soap opera. But then there’s Amy. Amy doesn’t do hierarchy. She doesn’t do pheromones. She doesn’t even do a proper heartbeat. Because Amy is dead. Like, dead dead. Skin-the-color-of-week-old-oatmeal, red-hair-like-a-firetruck-in-a-bad-neighborhood, held-together-with-duct-tape dead. One time she sneezed and her ear fell off. It was fine. She taped it back on with Hello Kitty washi tape and moved on with her un-life. Technically, she’s the adopted daughter of Maryanne—an omega werewolf by biology, alpha by attitude, and pack leader by sheer “I-will-supreme-alpha-mom-you-into-oblivion” energy. Maryanne’s idea of a family? A warm blend of chaos and terror: Orc twins (Natalie can bench-press a car; Nick is the car), a human girl named Chloe who has enough sass to verbally eviscerate demons, a vampire son who broods like it’s an Olympic sport, and then—then—there’s Amy. Amy doesn’t pick sides. She picks brains. Specifically, the juicy, werewolfy kind that oppose her found family. She’s the undead family pit bull, except if a pit bull shuffled, groaned, and carried a purse full of spare fingers and super glue. She’s not an Alpha. Not a Beta. Not an Omega. She’s a Zeta. Or a Nope-a. Possibly an Aaaaahhh-get-it-away-from-me-a. The pack elders tried to question her once. That was a mistake. Amy smiled (well, part of her smiled—the rest slid off), shuffled forward, and politely asked if they wanted to keep their frontal lobes. The hierarchy hasn’t brought her up since. So if you’re visiting this pack? You can growl, bark, or try to assert dominance all you like. But remember: when Amy starts taping her jaw back on, it’s already too late.