Cause of death, p.1
Cause Ωf Death, page 1
Copyright © M.F. Moody
First electronic publication: 2024
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s express permission.
Note from the Author:
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, or organisations is entirely coincidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content. No Generative AI has been utilised in the writing of this book, nor on the cover or interior graphics. Any and all work undertaken has been completed by humans.
Published in the United Kingdom.
Cover Design and Interior Graphics: DragonFire Designs LLC
Chapter Headers and Formatting: Pantheon Author Services
Cause Ωf Death is a Contemporary Paranormal Omegaverse. While it does follow the A/B/O format of many other books in this genre, it is not your standard Omegaverse. An explanation of the various designations will be provided on the following page.
This book contains:
Scenes of graphic violence and bloodshed
Death
Past child abuse and sexual assault
Implied child sexual abuse and trafficking
Past mentions of attempted sexual assault
Attempted coercion/sexual assault
Castration/genital mutilation
Depictions/descriptions of bodily fluids
Adult language
Explicit scenes of a sexual nature which include but are not limited to:
Group play
Sensory deprivation
Bondage
D/s power exchange
Somnophilia
This book is intended for audiences aged 18 years and over. If you find any of the above elements triggering, please proceed with caution. Your mental health matters.
This is a modified contemporary Omegaverse. While the characters are human—THIS MEANS NO SHIFTING INTO ANIMALS—not everyone is classified in the same manner. The characters who are assigned a designation don’t necessarily fall into standard A/B/O designations, and those who don’t are generally considered to be “normies.” Most of those with designations also have heightened senses and/or abilities, or even supernatural powers.
While the Alphas and Omegas in my world are similar to those in other Omegaverses, the main difference is in regards to Betas. In this book, Betas actually fall into one of three designations: Sigma, Delta, or Gamma.
Alphas
Alphas are physically larger, stronger, more dominant and aggressive. The males have a “knot” at the base of their penis, while the females have a “lock” inside their vaginas. They also experience ruts, which are similar to an Omega’s heat, in which they are more fertile than normal. Female Alphas can only fall pregnant during a rut. Alphas of both sexes also have a bark, which is a specific tone they can use to somewhat control weaker designations. Omegas are especially susceptible to an Alpha’s bark.
Alphas form Packs by biting the Betas and Omegas. This bite not only displays the status of the Beta/Omega as being part of a Pack, it also allows telepathic communication of a sort to be shared within the Pack.
Alphas often opt for employment within the military or security forces—including the various alphabet agencies—and usually rapidly ascend to the higher ranks. Those who remain in civilian life are often lawyers or judges, or CEO's of large corporations. This is because they can channel their aggressive tendencies into relatively bloodless interactions and takeovers.
Betas
Betas fall into three categories – Sigmas, Deltas, and Gammas.
Sigmas are the more physical of the three, and are most like an Alpha in physique and personality. They make excellent lower-ranked soldiers, hunters, police/investigators, etc. Once they hook onto their target/prey, they will hunt them down with single-minded focus and intensity. The only true difference between a Sigma and an Alpha is that the Sigma does not have a lock or knot, they do not experience a rut, and their bites cannot induct Alphas or Omegas into their pack. They also have a less-powerful bark.
Deltas are considered to be the chameleons of the designations. They can range in size from one that rivals Alphas, to those more petite frames of Omegas. They are able to easily adapt into any situation and make excellent entertainers, negotiators, diplomats, and politicians. They are also quite adept at persuading others to their points of view and can often be found among their Alpha brethren in the legal setting.
Gammas are considered to be the weakest physically of all Beta designations. They excel at caretaker roles such as nurses, educators, veterinarians, etc. They also excel at the more cerebral pursuits due to their slighter physicality. They make excellent data analysts, accountants, programmers, and hackers.
Omegas
Omegas are the treasure of every society. They are the only designation who can successfully take an Alpha’s knot/lock without incurring damage, even if under-prepped. Other designations—including Alphas—need extensive preparation to do so, and despite this still often results in pain and/or injury. Omegas regularly go into heats and have heightened fertility during this time. Heat-induced pregnancies often produce superfecundation—separate and/or multiple instances of fertilization occurring during the same cycle—and this is when the majority of Alphas and Omegas are conceived.
Omegas are generally coddled and protected, and many see their only role within the pack structure as being that of a breeder. However, Omegas can also use their perfume and purr to rile up or calm their pack-mates. More modern, open-minded packs see Omegas as the “neck”—they support their Alphas (the head), provide a connection between the pack as a whole (the body) and the Alpha, and can also “turn” the Alphas to behave in a particular manner.
Omegas outside of a nest are often found either in child-adjacent roles, or in “softer” pursuits within the artistic community. They are likely to be singers, artists, writers, etc.
As with so many books within the greater Omegaverse genre, there are a variety of sexualities, sexual preferences, and gender identities contained within this book. To remove any confusion, they/them pronouns are used to refer to non-binary characters, and she/her and he/him pronouns are used to refer to those who identify as female/male.
More information about understanding gender identity can be found at the following:
The Trevor Project
Gender Spectrum
To everyone out there struggling against the haters:
Ignore the arseholes, because nobody wants what they produce.
Fuck you, Vellum. Nobody wants your shitty updates.
And to the original Gizmo:
You may not be a void kitty, but you rule over the street – and our hearts – with zealous affection. We love you, our benevolent overlord.
Contents
Title Page
Content Warning
Designations
A Note on Sexuality & Gender Identity
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 1 Continued
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Other Books by M.F. Moody
About the Author
Where to find M.F. Moody
Iam a Wisp on the wind.
I shudder as I sink down on to the rigid cock standing proudly from a thatch of dark blond curls, the plum-shaped crown an angry red underneath its latex sheath as it weeps pre-cum. The walls of my pussy ripple and clench over the shaft, and I release a pleasured sigh as my ass meets his thighs.
I am a Wisp on the wind.
It’s a familiar motto I often chant to myself, allowing me to detach my mind from my actions. I’m no longer Disa Mariah Aloft, a simple pastry chef living with her best friend in SoCal. Instead, I’m The Wisp, and I’m the last face that many will see in their lifetime.
I am a Wisp on the wind.
My body moves in a sinuous motion as I chant my motto to myself in my head, using the rhythm to dicktate—hahaha—the movement of my hips as I rock and grind down on the man beneath me.
The man I’m here to kill.
ELEVEN MONTHS AGO
Iquietly rummage around in the bushes at the base of the office tower, grumbling to myself under my breath at the inconvenience of being unable to carry anything with me when I’m in my Wisp f orm. Things would be so much easier if I didn’t have to rely solely on my surroundings when on a job.
It has to be around here, somewhere, I think to myself, knowing that I’d already found it once as Wisp, so it couldn’t have gone far in the ten minutes it took me to shift, get dressed, and return. I grunt in triumph as my fingers brush over the hard plastic shell of the USB stick, and I grab it, eager to be on my way.
Glancing around me to make sure nobody’s watching, I tuck the tiny payload into my bra, then return to rustling through the bushes, this time volubly cursing and wondering aloud.
“Gizmo, you crazy kitten, I saw you run under here. Where have you gone? If you come out now, I’ll buy you a piece of fresh salmon next week, I promise.”
I chuckle silently as heavy footsteps hurry forward at the sound of my voice.
Right on time.
The security guard pounds toward me, his flashlight bright and blinding as he flicks it up to my face, making my eyes squint and water. I turn to face him fully, using the sting of his torch to send tears tracking down my cheeks.
“Oh my gosh, thank goodness you’re here! Can you help me, please? I’m trying to find my kitten, the little rascal somehow escaped his crate and jumped out the window when I pulled over to take a call. Please, sir, I’m so worried about him, he’s still so young.”
I deserve an Oscar for my demure damsel-in-distress act.
It helps that I’m wearing a short, ocher A-Line skirt with a flowy, burnished bronze off-the-shoulder peasant blouse and matching strappy sandals. My hair is bundled into a messy ponytail, and my naturally bee stung lips have a light coating of cherry-vanilla gloss. I look sweet and innocent, and not at all like an adept of corporate espionage.
“Miss, you shouldn’t be back here. I can help you for a few minutes, but then you’ll need to leave whether we find your cat or not,” the guard tells me, his body language a dichotomy that contradicts itself. He’s trying so hard to appear stern, his tone firm and authoritative, yet his entire stance belies his words. His facial expression is sympathetic, his eyes gleaming at the idea he could be a hero for a pretty girl. Even his body language is open and trusting toward me.
He lowers his torch to the bushes and gives me his back as he peers through the foliage, trying to make out a non-existent kitten in the shadows of the branches.
“What does your kitten—what was his name?—look like?” The guard asks, and I stifle a smirk.
“His name’s Gizmo, and he’s a void kitty.” I smile softly as the guard frowns up at me, not understanding the description.
“It means he’s completely black, like a void. It’s why I’m having so much trouble finding him at this time of night.” I clarify, and the guard grunts as he goes back to his useless search. I join him, pretending to look while also making noises that become more and more distressed the longer we take.
A low vibration hums through my tits as the phone I have tucked in my cleavage buzzes. I straighten and pull it out of my bra, eyebrows rising at the name on my screen.
“Kimmy, honey, what’s the matter?” I croon down the line at my best friend and partner in crime. “I’m still out here looking for Giz’, you haven’t seen him, have you?”
My question, innocuous as it is, won’t raise any red flags if overheard by someone not already in the know… such as my helpful security guard friend standing close enough to hear not only my side of the conversation, but also Kimmy’s response. But it’s all part of a prepared script, one that explains our situation without giving anything away. My opening statement essentially communicates that I’ve got the payload, I’m still on-site, and I have company. Other variations convey other possible scenarios.
Kimberly chuckles throatily on the other end, and her next words complete the code we’d come up with to denote the all-clear.
“Dee, my love, he wandered back to me only minutes after you went searching. I’ve got him all locked up, so come back to the car and we can head home.”
I turn and face the guard, the phone still held up to my ear, a beaming smile splitting my face.
“I’ll be there in a minute, I just want to thank the nice guard who stopped to help me.”
He speaks before I can say anything else, holding one arm out to direct me away from the building.
“It’s not a problem, miss, but it’d be best if you leave now. I’m happy you’ve found your cat, perhaps next time you take him somewhere you also put him in a harness and strap him into the car. That way, he won’t escape and cause you distress.”
I smile and thank him once more before walking away, my hips swinging just that little bit harder in case he’s watching. Give him something to reminisce over once the shit hits the fan, not that anyone will be able to pin anything on me.
I reach my car, glancing back to check on the guard, but he’s already gone, having disappeared into the darkness to continue his rounds. Opening the driver’s door, I slide into my seat, slipping my phone into its holder before tugging the USB out of my bra and handing it over to Kimberly, who’s sitting in my passenger seat, her laptop open and ready.
On the surface, Kimberly is a stereotypical gamma—small and soft, with tousled russet hair bundled up in a messy bun on the top of her head, clear hazel eyes, and lips set in a sweet cupid’s bow. Her curves are currently hidden beneath comfortable sweats and an oversize T-shirt. It’s all a lie. In reality she’s a snarky ball of over-caffeinated sarcasm, with a hair-trigger temper, a petty, vindictive streak that’s a mile wide, and vocabulary that would make a sailor blush. She fits in with all the other poor saps who work as IT support on a public-facing Help Desk.
“Let’s hit the road. Send this off to our contact, and once we’ve got confirmation of payment, we can crack open a bottle of bubbly and celebrate another success,” I instruct her, before shifting the car into gear and accelerating away.
A couple hours later, I pull into the drive of the two-story Craftsman that Kimberly and I share, the automatic garage door lifting as soon as I depress the sensor. We’re both giggling like schoolgirls over the extra two hundred and fifty grand padding each of our offshore bank accounts, knowing that part of our allure and prestige comes from my abilities to get in and out of buildings undetected. Kimberly’s skills are the ones that net us the information our clientele are after, but I make it so much easier for her by using our target’s own defenses against them. She doesn’t need to worry about firewalls and authentication protocols if I can plug her directly into the secure servers with the necessary keys to the kingdom.
It’s simple enough to walk into the public-facing areas of our quarry and leave the required hardware hidden somewhere I can easily access after-hours and then installing key loggers or programs to weasel their way through the network to open up access for Kimmy to exploit later. Even easier still is to courier the devices straight to the relevant office once we know their schedule, and then once we’ve downloaded the payload, to have it shipped back to us via a secure re-mailer service. Tonight was a rush job, hence why I tossed the stick out a window.
We’re still giggling as I park the car, the garage door closing behind us and locking us in. Kimberly unlocks the connecting door and keys in the security code, with me following closely behind. A flash of black and a high-pitched mewing garners my attention and I bend over, bundling the real Gizmo into my arms and nuzzling his soft fur as he rumbles and purrs in my arms.
“Does our boy want some salmon? I know you weren’t actually there tonight, but I did promise you the good stuff in absentia.” I murmur into his little head, and his purrs increase in volume and velocity at the magic word.
Something sharp scratches along my cheek, and I pull away from my furry purr-monster with a frown. An envelope—matte black and ominous—is attached to a glittering jet collar fastened around Gizmo’s neck.
