​Denise Lee crafts compelling fiction across multiple genres, from intricate mysteries to paranormal tales and her celebrated detective series. Writing from her farm in South Carolina's Lowcountry, where Spanish moss drapes ancient oaks and tidal creeks weave through marshlands, she finds endless inspiration in the region's natural beauty and rich cultural heritage.

Before settling near Charleston in 2010, Lee's life took her across the United States, each location leaving its mark on her storytelling. These varied experiences emerge in her work through authentic regional details and diverse character perspectives that bring her fiction to vivid life.

Today, she writes from her working farm, where the natural rhythms of rural life inform her creative process. Her daily routine includes tending to an eclectic collection of animals, from horses and chickens to rescued pets, all of whom occasionally find their way into her stories as inspiration for memorable characters.

The rich history and culture of Charleston provide fertile ground for her work. The city's historic architecture, vibrant arts scene, and complex social history often serve as backdrops for her novels. Lee particularly enjoys incorporating local legends and lowcountry lore into her paranormal fiction, creating stories that feel uniquely rooted in the region's mysterious atmosphere.

When not writing, Lee can be found exploring the area's nature preserves, attending local cultural events, or simply enjoying the front porch lifestyle that drew her family to embrace Southern living. She is an active member of several local writers' groups and regularly participates in literary events throughout the Southeast.

The transition to South Carolina has proven to be more than just a change of address—it has become a wellspring of creativity that continues to enrich her expanding body of work. Lee often says that finding her home in the Lowcountry was like discovering the missing piece of her creative puzzle, allowing her to fully embrace her voice as a writer.

AUDIO FILE
the_deal_with_death_audio_chapter_one.mp3

​Chapter 1
I stood alone, a solitary figure before a brand new tombstone, the locket with my father’s picture in my hand as cold as the grave before me. Father’s face, once vibrant within its tiny frame, now seemed to sneer at the futility of my tears. I pressed the locket to my lips, a silent prayer escaping into the chill air, a plea for the impossible—to have him breathe, laugh, and scold me once more.
“Come back, Father, I am alone,” I whispered into the void. My voice was a ghost amid the sighing willows, a specter of longing in the shadow of death.
I turned away from his resting place, my gaze sweeping over the village that squatted in the valley below. It was an isolated patchwork of thatched roofs and cobblestone paths, quaint but quivering under a pall of collective dread. Hundreds of people stared. As I descended from the cemetery hill, I could feel their eyes upon me—sharp, piercing, distrustful. The villagers huddled together, their whispers carrying on the wind like the rustling of dead leaves.
“Storm-bringer,” they muttered—a title not given but stabbed upon me. Their fear was palpable, woven into every glare, every barred door, every cross clutched at the sight of me. They believed I summoned the tempests, that my sorrow unleashed chaos upon their fields and hearths. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps my heart, brimming with grief and darkness, had called forth the wrath of nature.
“Elara,” they would say, the word a curse upon their lips, “she is her father’s daughter, a creature of storm and despair.” But they knew nothing of the battles I fought within, the calmness I sought in my soul to spare them my internal fury—an internal fury that could grow and grow until the world around me swept and fell in gales of wind, debris, and even fire. 
The thought of their ignorance should have fueled my contempt; instead, it wrapped around my heart like ivy, tightening with each heartbeat. They did not understand, could not fathom the depth of my loss or the lengths to which I’d go to undo the past. I would have died in his stead. His death was my fault, my lack of control killed him.
“Father,” I murmured again, clutching the locket tighter, as if it were a talisman that could bridge the realm between life and death. “What have I become without you?”
With each step toward the wary gazes of the villagers, the weight of their suspicion, and the mass of their unspoken accusations was a force rounding my shoulders and not allowing me to inhale fully. Yet beneath it all lay a glimmer of hope, fragile as a spider’s silk, that somehow I might bring light to this endless gloom—to call my father back from the shadows and quiet the storms in my heart.
As I walked the narrow cobblestone streets of the village, their fear was palpable; it clung to the air like a thick fog. Timid glances flickered in my direction before shuttering away behind hastily drawn curtains. The whispers, those hisses of dread, danced on the wind and circled around me, a chorus of unease.
“Stormbringer,” they muttered, a title not entirely bereft of truth. It carved into me a reminder of my fragile state and the tempest that churned within my soul. They spoke as though I craved the havoc as if I reveled in the terror that my grief-stricken heart seemed to conjure with cruel whimsy.
My footsteps faltered, and I paused beside the well in the center of the square. The sky above, once a benign shade of blue, now mirrored the turmoil inside me. Dark clouds amassed like an army at the horizon, advancing with deliberate intent. The air grew heavy, expectant of the chaos it knew I would unleash.
“Control it, Elara,” I whispered to myself, the words a feeble spell against the gathering power. “Not again, not now.”
But the sorrow was a tide, relentless and tortuous. It swelled within my chest, a rising deluge that sought release. And with a shudder that ripped through my being, the skies answered my silent plea—the plea I never meant to voice.
The first crack of thunder was a whip across the heavens, fracturing the last vestiges of calm. Lightning forked, a brilliant display of unchecked fury striking the bell tower with a resounding clang. The villagers scattered, their cries melding with the cacophony of the storm as it descended upon us all.
“Curse you, Elara!” A man’s voice, laden with anger, cut through the tumult as he herded his family indoors.
“Monster!” another spat, a woman with eyes as sharp as the lightning above.
I could do nothing but stand there, the architect of disaster, watching the world bend and cower under the weight of my affliction. Rain lashed the earth, a torrential downpour that turned paths into rivers and fields into lakes. The wind howled like a beast unleashed, wrenching doors from hinges and tearing shutters from windows. It screamed in a voice akin to mine, a sound filled with loss and longing—a lamentation for the peace I could not find, for the father I longed to resurrect.
Their shelters became their sanctuaries, barricades against the storm—and against me. Alone I stood in the maelstrom, a figure cloaked in desolation, the very image of the gothic tales they would tell by their hearths.
“Father, forgive me,” I cried out, but the storm swallowed my words, devouring them with an insatiable hunger. Each flash of light, each boom of thunder reflected my fractured spirit, of a daughter’s love so profound it defied the boundaries between life and death.
And yet, amidst the wrath, there was beauty—terrifying and magnificent. It was the world as I had made it: a landscape of shadows and tempests, where every drop of rain held a sorrow, and every gust of wind bore the echoes of a haunted past.
The storm dwindled to a sullen drizzle, its fury spent, leaving the world blurred and weeping. I made my way back to my tiny cottage, previously shared by my father and I. Now it was my hell instead of my haven. I went to step outside for water for the kettle. It was then that the letter came—a scrap of yellowed parchment, sealed with wax as black as the night I had conjured. No courier knocked upon my door; it lay simply on the sodden ground as though dropped by an unseen hand.
With trembling fingers, I broke the seal, unfolding the script within. The letters were drawn in ink so dark it seemed to drink the surrounding light, arranged in patterns arcane, whispering of secrets long buried and rites forgotten. An incantation, it claimed, potent enough to pierce the veil between life and death, to summon back a soul from the eternal embrace of the grave. I could bring him back.
“Father,” I whispered, clutching the locket tight enough to feel the edges bite into my palm. My heart clenched at the thought of his eyes opening once more, fixing upon me with the warmth I yearned for. But could it be? Could these words, etched in darkness, truly undo the cruel work of fate?
A dance with shadows—this was what the incantation promised. A chance to right the grievous wrong of his absence. Yet, even as hope fluttered in my chest like a trapped bird, dread coiled in the pit of my stomach. For such power did not come without cost, and the price demanded might be more than I could bear.
“Would you wish this, Father?” I asked the silence that answered me with nothing but the echoes of my desperation.
The villagers spoke of curses, of storms born from a daughter’s grief unchecked. And I, the source of their woes, knew too well the havoc my unbridled heart could wreak. But love is a force untamed, and in its grip, caution becomes but a ghostly whisper against the thundering beat of desire.
I traced the ancient runes with a hesitant touch, each symbol a seduction, a promise of the impossible. In the dimming light, the walls of my resolve crumbled, eroded by the relentless tide of longing.
“I beg forgiveness,” I whispered to the gods or devils, if they were there to hear me. “I am just a weak human, prone to all its foolishness.”
Decision clawed its way through the fog of doubt, sharp and clear as the first star piercing twilight’s shroud. I would voice the incantation, let the words spill forth in an offering of soul-deep yearning. I would call to the depths where he slumbered, and bid him return to a world grown cold in his absence.
“Come back to me,” I begged to the encroaching darkness that seemed to lean in close, eager to witness the unfolding tragedy. “Come back and let us sever the chains of this cruel parting.”
After gathering needed supplies, my flint, anathame, silver coin, and the crystals passed down through the family, I returned to my father’s grave. In the shivering silence that followed, I prepared to speak the forbidden litany, every syllable heavy with the weight of the unknown. My fate, once entwined with the capricious whims of the heavens, now rested in the grasp of ancient forces hidden within the ink-stained lines of a mysterious note.
And if doom was to be my inheritance for such temerity, let it be said that Elara dared in the name of love, even as the shadows gathered, hungry for the reckoning to come.
With the final, tremulous word of the incantation hanging in the air like a specter’s confession, silence descended upon the room—a mausoleum stillness that seemed to hold its breath. The locket, its chain wrapped around my trembling fingers, pulsed as if it were a living heart bound by silver and sorrow.
Energy crackled through the atmosphere, invisible yet palpable as the shiver of leaves before a tempest. It seemed the very fabric of the night was being woven anew, thread by spectral thread, beneath the command of my voice—an unwary seamstress stitching a tapestry of fate and folly.
My eyes, wide with anticipation, scanned the shadows for any sign, any whisper of my father’s return. Hope, fragile as a morning dew, clung to my soul.
“Father, can you hear me?” I murmured my voice a blend of desperation and desire. Perhaps it was a cruel trick of the mind to believe such words could traverse the silent expanse between life and death.
As I stood there, caught in the limbo of wanting and dread, the air shifted a subtle change that brushed against my skin like the ghost of a long-forgotten embrace. And then a form appeared. A tall, slender figure with a staff… the staff of… death. She appeared—Thalia, death herself.
She rose before me, not conjured from smoke or shadow, but seeming to step out from the thin veil that separates worlds. Tall and ethereal, her form commanded the space, an embodiment of serene finality. Her gown, woven from the essence of twilight itself, flowed about her like mist over a grave.
“Elara,” she said, her voice the sound of dusk falling upon the world, gentle yet irrevocable.
I recoiled the name on her lips a verdict, an acknowledgment that the boundary had been breached. My heart beat a frantic dirge within my chest, each thump echoing the realization of what I had summoned.
“Death,” I whispered, my voice barely rising above the sound of my own erratic pulse. Surprise painted my features, a portrait of naïve incredulity. Fear followed swiftly, as certain and engulfing as the dark that swallows day’s last light.
“Thalia.” The name tasted foreign, a forbidden incantation of its own as it left my lips. She stood before me, not as the harvester of souls with a ghastly scythe, but as something far more disquieting—a presence that exuded tranquility amidst the chaos I had wrought.
“Have you come for me?” The question emerged, laced with both defiance and a plea, revealing the paradox of my existence: a creature longing for life, yet intimately entwined with death.
Her eyes, ageless pools reflecting the calm of eternity, met mine. In their depths, I sensed the weight of countless passings, the silent stories of lives returned to the earth and stars. With her arrival, the truth of my actions crystallized, cold and unyielding as a tombstone’s inscription.
“Speak,” I demanded, the words tinged with the iron of resolve and the brittle fragility of hope, unaware of how this encounter would alter the course of my haunted journey.
“Elara,” Thalia’s voice was the whisper of silk against stone, “you have trespassed upon the sacred boundary that separates existence from oblivion.”
My hand instinctively clasped tighter around my father’s locket, an anchor in the sudden tide of dread. I gazed into her unfathomable eyes, trying to discern the depth of my folly. Her presence filled the space between heartbeats with the gravity of ancient tombs and the solemnity of vaulted cathedrals.
“Your actions bear consequences far beyond your mortal comprehension.” It was a reprimand wrapped in velvet, stern yet laced with an empathy that was almost maternal. “The tempest you’ve wrought with your unchecked sorrow wreaks havoc amongst the living and unsettles the quiet slumber of the dead.”
I swallowed, the sound as loud as a coffin nail being hammered home. “There must be some mistake,” I said, my voice a blend of defiance and disbelief. “I sought only to reverse the cruelty of fate, not to court chaos.”
“Death is neither cruel nor kind; it simply is,” she replied, her tone unyielding as the very laws she invoked. “To pull at the threads of life’s tapestry is to unravel the order that binds us all.”
“Order?” The word escaped me like a scornful laugh, hollow and sharp. “What order sanctions endless grief? What good is the balance if it weighs heavily on the bereaved?”
Thalia regarded me with an unfathomable poise. “Grief is the price of love, Elara, paid in full by every beating heart. But there is a path for you, one that requires discipline and understanding.”
“Teach me, then,” I challenged, desperation sharpening my words to daggers. “Show me how to wield this curse that festers within my breast.”
Her ethereal form seemed to draw the shadows closer, making them dance with a purpose. “It is not a curse, but a gift, though one ill-suited to the reckless. You possess the rare ability to guide the lost and soothe those who linger. Will you accept the mantle of a guardian, learning to master the storm of your emotions and to steward the souls to their rightful repose?”
My resistance waned as her offer entwined itself around the raw edges of my pain. Skepticism gnawed at me still, for how could such tranquility coexist with the torment that had become my constant companion? Yet, the allure of control, the promise of purpose, beckoned me like a lighthouse to a ship adrift in a relentless, dark sea.
“Guide me,” I whispered, half in resignation, half in hope, as I stood at the precipice of an unseen world, eager to escape the haunting echo of past sins.
The surrounding air grew colder as the words tumbled from Thalia’s lips, each syllable a weight that anchored my swirling thoughts. A guardian, she called it—a steward of souls. Yet what was this mantle but another shroud to wrap around the grief I could not escape? The longing for my father gnawed at my insides, a relentless hunger no passage of time could sate.
“Is there truly peace in such a duty?” I asked, my voice betraying the quiver of doubt that laced my heart. “Or is it merely another chain to bind me to this world of loss and shadows?”
“Peace is not given, Elara,” Thalia replied, her voice the whisper of leaves in an autumnal wind. “It is earned through acceptance, through the courage to let go of what cannot be reclaimed.”
The locket at my chest seemed heavier now, a small, metallic testament to the love I bore for the man who had shaped my very being. To bring him back—oh, what folly, what sweet, tempting folly that dream was. But within that dream lurked the specter of consequence, its gaunt fingers poised to choke the life from all I knew.
“Acceptance...” I murmured, tasting the bitterness of the word. It was surrender, dressed in the finery of wisdom. Yet even as the battle raged within me, I yielded to the inexorable pull toward the truth that lay in Thalia’s offer.
I looked into Thalia’s eyes, pools of serenity amidst the tumult of my soul, and found a reflection of the resolve I so desperately sought. It was a mirror of possibilities, of a future unmarred by the tempests of my making.
“Teach me,” I said, the words carving themselves into the night with the finality of a gravestone inscription. “I will learn. I will accept. For him—for my father—I will walk this path you lay before me.”
“Be warned,” Thalia intoned, her gaze never leaving mine. “The journey is long and fraught with shadows that will test your very essence. You must face the phantoms of your past, the guilt that claws at your conscience.”
“Let them come,” I answered, allowing the steely edge of determination to harden my resolve. “I have dwelt in the company of ghosts for too long. It is time to lead them home.”
Thalia nodded, a subtle acknowledgment that sealed our pact. In that moment, the storm within me subsided, not quieted but acknowledged—an understanding reached between the chaos of my heart and the stillness of my newfound purpose. “We will go, do have anything else to bring.”
My thoughts rushed through the contents of my tiny cottage, dismissing all as unrequired. My thoughts shifted to Rhea. Will she be ok without me?
And so, with a vow whispered under the watchful gaze of the moon, I stepped forward into the unknown, ready to embrace the darkness and the light that lay beyond, my every step an echo of the balance I vowed to protect.
The earth beneath my boots whispered secrets of the departed as I turned from the grave, the locket’s weight against my chest a constant reminder of what I’d lost—and what I stood to gain. A figure emerged from the shadows, her presence cutting through the fog of my isolation like a lighthouse beacon.
“Elara,” Rhea called out, her voice steady despite the night’s chill. Her eyes, fierce as the tempests I summoned, bore into mine with unwavering resolve. “You’re not alone in this. I’m with you, every step of the way.”
I studied her—this friend who had faced the villagers’ scorn alongside me, a steadfast sentinel against their superstitious whispers. In her gaze lay an ocean of loyalty, depths I dared not fathom for fear of what it might cost her.
“Rhea, this path is fraught with peril, more than you know,” I cautioned, the truth clawing at my throat. “It’s not your burden to bear.”
Her laugh, short and sharp, cut through my apprehensions. “Since when have I ever let you carry your burdens alone? We’re in this together, Elara.”
A wry smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “Together,” I echoed, the word tasting like a promise—or a curse.
We turned to face Thalia, who regarded us both with the patience of the eternal. “Prepare yourselves,” she intoned, her voice the dirge of fading stars. “What lies ahead will challenge the very fabric of your beings.”
“Let it come,” Rhea said, her hand finding mine, an anchor in the tumultuous sea of uncertainty.
“Then we begin,” Thalia declared, her form shimmering with otherworldly grace. She moved ahead, a specter leading us into the unknown, and we followed—the living and the dead, each bound by chains of grief and hope.
Our footsteps fell in silent rhythm, a macabre dance with fate as we ventured into the heart of night, where the line between life and death blurred into obscurity. Shadows clung to us, whispering of bygone sins and the price of tampering with the sacred order.
“Remember,” Thalia’s voice floated back to us, “balance is delicate, as easily toppled as the first domino in an endless cascade.”
“Balance,” I murmured, the locket a cold kiss against my skin. “For him, for all of us, I will walk this razor’s edge.”
“Until the end,” Rhea added, her grip on my hand unyielding.
With sadness in our hearts but a fierce resolve, we created a new life, the past haunting us but hope for redemption in the shadows guiding us. The journey stretched before us, infinite and daunting, but I was no longer a solitary wanderer—I had my guide, my friend, and the ghosts of yesterday to lead me forward.

Ancient legends speak of the Anunnaki - an advanced and powerful race that is believed to have descended from the heavens. People believed that these godlike beings created humanity and ruled over the earth.


At their helm was King Anu, ruler of all gods. His grand palace loomed high above the earth, where, under his iron-fisted reign, the Anunnaki prospered and their civilization thrived.
But as with all things, their reign eventually came to an end. Enlil, a powerful god living on earth, brought a dire message to Anu. The earth needed laborers for its fields and mines. Recognizing the weight of this request, Anu made a fateful decision - to create humankind.
King Anu convened a council of the most skilled Anunnaki scientists and geneticists to discuss the creation of this new being - humans. They worked tirelessly, manipulating the DNA of various Earth creatures until they finally crafted a being in their image. However, to ensure that humans remained subservient and loyal, King Anu decreed that their lifespans would be significantly shorter than those of the Anunnaki. This way, generations of humans would come and go in the blink of an eye compared to the immortality of the gods. And so, with a heavy heart but a sense of duty, the Anunnaki released their creation into the world, setting in motion a chain of events that would forever change the course of history for both gods and humans alike.
Formed from clay and given life by the breath of the gods, humans were born into existence. Taught by the Anunnaki how to farm, mine for precious metals, and build magnificent cities, the human race flourished.
Yet, not all the gods were content with humanity’s existence. Enki, god of wind and storms, saw them as a threat to their power. He conspired with other gods to unleash a catastrophic flood upon the world.
But Enlil, who had grown fond of humans, secretly warned one man named Utnapishtim. With Enki’s help, Utnapishtim built an ark that saved him and his family from the devastating deluge.
Afterwards, the Anunnaki kept humanity alive but in servitude. They appointed kings and priests to rule over humans and maintain control. For thousands of years, they reigned supreme until humans grew restless and rebellious against their divine masters.
As humanity sought knowledge and power for themselves, whispers spread of the true nature of these godlike beings. Some say they never truly left earth and that their descendants still walk among us in disguise - possessing unimaginable wealth and advanced technology.
There are even tales of encounters with these supposed Anunnaki descendants - towering, ivory-skinned entities with elongated skulls and piercing eyes. It is said they hold the secrets of the universe and the genuine history of the human species.
This is one of those stories:


In the distant past, during a sunset with shadows stretching out over the vast city, a figure hurried through the maze of alleyways. The sound of their footsteps reverberated against the aged stone walls, each one marking another moment in the darkness.
Elena knew she was being followed. The air crackled with an otherworldly energy, a sensation that prickled at her skin like a warning from the ancestors. She clutched the pendant around her neck, its cool metal a comforting weight against the rising tension in her chest. The Bloodline was a gift and a curse, drawing both admirers and adversaries in equal measure.
She knew as a member of this powerful line of humanity that she carried the power of reading and controlling minds.
And right now, she knew there was a mind tracking her down, following her with intent. The faster she ran, the faster it followed.
A sudden gust of wind sent a chill down Elena’s spine, and she quickened her pace. The narrow streets twisted and turned, leading her deeper into the heart of the city where shadows danced like specters in the flickering lamplight. Her pursuer remained just out of sight, a presence lurking at the edge of her senses.
Elena darted into a dimly lit alley, her lungs burning with exertion as she pressed herself against the cold stone wall. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the sounds of the bustling city beyond. She strained her senses, trying to catch any sign of her mysterious pursuer.
It was here.
A soft whisper brushed against her ear, barely audible yet laden with a sense of foreboding. “You cannot escape your destiny, Elena,” it hissed, sending shivers down her spine. The voice was unfamiliar yet familiar, like a half-remembered dream that lingered on the edge of consciousness.
Gripping the pendant tighter, Elena closed her eyes and focused on the ancient power coursing through her veins. The Bloodline had always been a source of strength and protection, passed down through generations with its secrets carefully guarded. But now, it seemed to pulse with a life of its own, responding to the imminent threat that loomed in the shadows.
As she opened her eyes, a figure materialized before her - a tall, cloaked silhouette with piercing, luminous eyes that seemed to bore into her very soul. The air crackled with an otherworldly energy as the figure raised a hand, palm outstretched, sending a ripple through the fabric of reality itself.
“Elena,” the figure spoke, its voice echoing with the weight of centuries past.
The figure’s smooth white skin was almost blinding in contrast to the dark, hooded cloak it wore. But it was the eyes that captured Elena’s attention - they seemed almost too large for the face, and their bright blue hue glowed with an otherworldly intensity.
As the figure pushed back its hood, Elena’s eyes widened in shock at the sight before her. The being’s face was so pale it almost glowed, contrasting starkly with the black cloak that enveloped its tall, slender frame. But it was the eyes that held her attention - huge, round orbs that seemed to emit an ethereal light, burning with a bright blue flame that was both mesmerizing and unnerving.
“Do not be afraid. I am the God Enlil. I will not hurt you. You carry the blood of kings and gods within you. Elena,” Enlil said, his voice echoing with the weight of centuries past. 
A wave of dread and rebellion surged through Elena’s body, her hand involuntarily grasped for the hidden blade secured in her belt. But before she could make a move, Enlil slowly lowered his hand and spoke again, the voice laced with a dangerous tenderness that sent shivers down Elena’s spine.
“Listen to me, child of the Bloodline. There are those who seek to manipulate your power for their own dark purposes. You must trust in your own strength and unlock the dormant potential that lies within you.”
Confusion clouded Elena’s mind as she struggled to make sense of the cryptic words spoken by the mysterious figure. The weight of her heritage bore down on her like a heavy cloak, suffocating her with its implications. She had always known she was different, but this encounter hinted at a truth far beyond her wildest imaginings.
“You must accept what I am gifting you,”he said.
As she stood frozen in place, Enlil extended a hand towards her, offering an invitation. Despite the uncertainty gnawing at her heart, Elena felt a pull, a magnetic force drawing her towards the enigmatic being. With hesitant steps, she approached, her eyes locked on Enlil’s mesmerizing gaze.
“You are not alone in this world, Elena,” he whispered, his voice carrying an otherworldly melody that resonated deep within her soul. “There are others like you, descendants of the Anunnaki, scattered across the realms. Together, you hold the key to unlocking a power that has long been dormant. We, Gods are leaving this world, but I will always be available to you and your descendants.”
Enlil’s words filled Elena with trepidation, but she found herself reaching toward the figure, without thought. She could feel calm, replacing her fear. She reached out and grasped the cloaked hand before her, feeling a snap and surge of energy flow through her veins at the contact. Enlil’s eyes seemed to glow brighter, filled with a mixture of pride and relief. Knowledge flowed into Elena like water into a canyon. 
“Embrace your destiny, Elena,” the figure intoned, their voice now resonating with an ancient power that stirred something deep within her. “The time has come for you to awaken the dormant potential of your Bloodline and stand against those who would seek to exploit it.”
As the surge of energy continued to course through Elena, a newfound sense of clarity washed over her. Visions of ancient civilizations, celestial beings, and forgotten knowledge flashed before her eyes in a dizzying display. She saw herself standing amongst a group of individuals, each bearing the unmistakable mark of the Bloodline, their collective power illuminating the darkness that threatened to consume the world.
With a sudden jolt, Elena found herself back in the dim alleyway, her hand still clasped firmly in the grip of the cloaked figure. The echoes of their words reverberated in her mind as she looked into those piercing, luminous eyes once more. This time, a sense of purpose and determination burned brightly within her own gaze.
“I will not falter,” Elena declared, her voice steady and resolute. “I will embrace this legacy, protect it with all that I am, and stand united with my kin against any who dare to challenge us.”
A flicker of approval gleamed, and the God disappeared.
Elena made a silent vow to honor her ancestors and protect the legacy they had given upon her. With a renewed sense of purpose, she allowed the power within her to unfurl like a dormant dragon awakening from slumber.
As she did, a radiant light bathed her, casting a shimmering glow that cut through the shadows of the dimly lit alley, filling it with a celestial luminescence. The soft hum of the light gently echoed, resonating with a soothing melody that harmonized with the stillness of the night. A faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air, adding a delicate touch of floral sweetness to the ethereal ambiance. The warmth of the light embraced her, caressing her skin with a gentle, comforting sensation, as if being held by unseen hands.
She left the ancient city of mud walls and clay streets, began her long walk through the jungle, she returned to her home; a tiny hut on the river of the Seim Reap River in what is now known as Cambodia. She carried within her the dreams and details that would eventually become Angkor Wat. 
The ancient city of Angkor Wat rose before her like a vision from another time, its towering spires reaching towards the heavens as if in silent supplication to the gods. Elena stood at the edge of the river, her eyes fixed on the majestic temple complex that seemed to hum with an otherworldly energy. In her mind, she could see a huge monument settled facing west, oriented to post up a fantastic view of the sunrise of the equinoxes and filled with stories of history, both past and future. It would be created with 9 pineal symbols raised to the heavens, 4 smaller pineal pillars surrounding another 4 and 1 largest pointing to the heavens.Though it would not exist yet in her lifetime; she knew the direction they must build. 
The encounter with the mysterious figure lingered in her mind, his cryptic words echoing through her thoughts like a haunting melody. She knew that her destiny was intricately tied to this sacred place, a nexus of power and secrets waiting to be unlocked. As she sat in her little hut, she studied the information placed in her mind, she learned the necessary techniques of teleportation, frequency manipulation and how to control even the surfaces of the stone so that the carvings of knowledge can be placed onto the faces of the stone. 
As night descended over the land, Elena left her hut and made her way through the dense jungle surrounding the future Angkor Wat, guided by an unseen force that seemed to pull her towards a hidden entrance obscured by centuries of foliage. Vines and roots twisted and tangled around ancient stones, obscuring the path ahead like a living labyrinth.
With each step she took, the air grew thick with anticipation, a sense of ancient magic permeating the very fabric of reality.

Tirin Gristruc Vaduva
Age 349 • Carpathian Mountains, Romania
Tirin is Elvish for tall tower. He uses Waltrina’s powers of immortality. 
Role in Story
Son of Waltrina and Outward Leader of Nemracki.
Goal
To have killed all Druids in the world and absorbed their powers.
Physical Description
Bald
Very tall
Loves Horses

Personality
Golden Child of the Narcissistic Waltrina

Occupation
Druid killer

Habits/Mannerisms
Splayed leg Macho
Dominant in all but his Mother.

Background
Superpower forced telepathy on all but Druids. 
He is the Nemracki voice in contact with Bryan in book 1.

Waltrina Anatasia Vaduva
Age 399 • Carpathian Mountains, Romania

Role in Story
Great, Great Grandmother of Julia and Mary (Twins)

​Mother of Tirin

Base of all evil and grand priestess of the Nemracki

Goal
To have killed all Druids in the world and absorbed their powers.

Physical Description
Originally 5’10” now only 4’5”
Gnarled creepy long fingers
No eye balls - only glowing sockets
Blind but can detect everything through clicking.

Personality
Narcissistic - only concerned with herself, her power, her followers, very cult like.

Occupation
Witch

Habits/Mannerisms
Clicks her finger nails together to create a echo-location ability.

Press Release ### Press Release:

Denise Lee to Speak at Killer Nashville Conference, August 22-25

FRANKLIN, Tennessee (August 8, 2024) - Denise Lee, acclaimed author and writing coach, will be a panel speaker at the 2024 Killer Nashville International Writers' Conference, held August 22-25 at the Embassy Suites by Hilton in Franklin, Tennessee.

During the three-day event, Lee will participate in several informative panels designed to help writers enhance their craft and grow their careers:

**Quality and Efficiency: Writing Tools for Writers**
Saturday, August 24 from 1:50 PM - 2:35 PM
Lee will share her top recommendations for writing software, apps, and other tools that can improve productivity and polish.

**Organizational Skills for Writers** 
Sunday, August 25 from 9:00 AM - 9:45 AM
In this session, Lee will provide strategies and best practices to help writers stay focused and on-track, from project planning to time management.

**Setting Up Book Tours and Blog Tours**
Sunday, August 25 from 12:30 PM - 1:15 PM
Lee will draw on her extensive experience to guide writers through the process of arranging successful book and blog tours to promote their work.

"I'm thrilled to be a part of this year's Killer Nashville conference," said Lee. "These panels are designed to give writers concrete, actionable advice they can implement right away to elevate their writing and expand their readership. I look forward to sharing my knowledge and insights with the attendees."

The Killer Nashville International Writers' Conference is an annual event that brings together aspiring and established authors, publishers, agents, and other industry professionals for workshops, panels, networking, and more. For more information or to register, visit killernashville.com.

### About Denise Lee
Denise Lee is an award winning author and writing coach with over 25 years of experience. She has published numerous books across various genres and her work has been praised for its depth of character, vivid settings, and impactful themes. Lee is also the founder of Writer's Oasis, an online community that provides educational resources and support for writers at all stages of their careers.