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I wrote this fanciful novel after reading about a story of vampires involved with Napoleon's failed conquest of Russia. Why not set up these enigmatic creatures on the remote island of Saint Helena, a place of myth and hardship?
Enjoy the surreal existence of vampires during Napoleon's final exile. Just who is one of the undead, and who isn't? Young maid Isabelle, a member of the emperor's household, will soon find out. And she must rush to stop a wicked attack.
Here is an excerpt:
Isabelle envied the handsome white stucco colonial house with light gray shutters nestled in its verdant garden. But the Union Jack—the emblem of their imprisonment—that rippled from a flagstaff in front of the structure’s Georgian porch had marred the effect.
This beautiful scenery almost eased her distress over the bat-dream of three nights past, or had that part been real? She stifled a quiver.
“Do you like working here?” she asked the maid who had arranged many of the other ladies’ wraps.
She was a mulatto girl with slightly brownish skin and plump lips. “Yes, it’s one of the best places on the island to work.”
“I imagine it would be.” Isabelle stepped to the ballroom door, watching the ladies twirl like flowers in their gowns of pink, blue and yellow; silks, taffetas and muslins. A reminisce of life back in Europe. She sighed. Not that she would have danced in such company. She turned and helped the other maid arrange wraps and hats in scents of perfume, talcum powder and perspiration. “These English bonnets are not so pretty. Do you like Governor Lowe?”
“I don’t see him much.” The maid held up a wrap with intricate lace on the borders, her gaze admiring. “I mostly assist the Missus.”
“Lowe seems a man of quick temper.” Isabelle said this as nonchalant as she could manage. She caressed a white ostrich feather on one of the hats.
“He can be, but he does not sleep well.”
“How do you know that?” Isabelle kept her tone conversational.
“His valet. . .is my special friend.” She grinned. “He says the governor wanders about late at night.” The maid twitched her lips. “But I should not speak ill of my employer.” Now she watched Isabelle, embarrassment glinting in her eyes.
“I’m sorry.” Isabelle decided to leave that topic—though she found that information significant. “Do you know I’m the one who found that poor, dead girl in Sane Valley?” She again pictured Amanda’s distressed face.
The maid started and backed up a step. The feathered hat in her hands wavered. She set it down. “A very terrible sight, I’m certain.”
“Are they still investigating the death?”
“I don’t think so.” The maid averted her gaze and plucked at a ribbon on a bonnet.
“I thought your valet friend might have known whether they thought the death an accident or something more?” In the resulting silence, Isabelle spoke again: “I’m new here, but,” she ran her fingers along a satiny pelisse, feigning indifference, “I wondered if you’ve heard of an animal called the beast?”

“Everyone knows of that.” The reply sounded more like an accusation, the maid’s eyes sharpening.
“Has anyone ever seen it? Isn’t it more a superstition?”
“No, it’s real.” The mulatto girl twisted at the bonnet ribbon, then turned her back. “But we keep our mouths quiet here.”
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Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.