In 1897, the same year Dracula darkened London's streets, Florence Marryat gave us something stranger: a vampire who doesn't know she's killing. Harriet Brandt leaves the convent that raised her in Jamaica for the bright lights of Belgium, her mixed-race beauty turning heads, her appetite startling onlookers. She wants only what any young woman wants: love, connection, a place in the world. But those who draw too close fall ill. Children weaken. Lovers wither. Doctor Phillips has a terrible theory, one that traces Harriet's condition to bloodlines she never chose: the daughter of a mad scientist and a voodoo priestess, cursed by inheritance to drain the life from everyone she touches. Marryat's genius lies in making her vampire sympathetic - Harriet is not a predator but a victim, tragic and unknowing, navigating a Victorian society that would reject her both for her race and her lethal secret. This is Gothic horror with a bleeding heart, and it haunted the late Victorian imagination for good reason.
