A Divine Madness

by Colin P. Davies & David Redd

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Part 2: Madrid 1808

Napoleon’s troops were marching on the city and everything was going to Hell. Diana was working in a taberna again; she was attracted to gaiety and laughter and wine, although tonight the atmosphere was subdued and nervous. Even in the chill dryness of this November evening, the stench of sweat was overpowering.

The man called her over to his table. He appeared unremarkable and smiled as she proffered the bottle of cheap local white. He nodded. “I hear you are a poet,” he said.

“Oh... yes. Although poet sounds much too grand a word! I can read and handle words after a fashion.” But that was feigned humility; she was proud of her skills. With her words she could conjure up anything: a great eternal oak-tree, or the may-fly humans who flitted past it... not that the man’s interest would be genuine.

She placed the bottle on the table and examined this man who sat so arrogantly upright. Fortyish and already greying, and with his fine clothes carrying the scent of oranges. A landowner perhaps. In the candlelit taberna, his smooth-shaven face was a flickering moon. Her guard dropped and she allowed herself to lean on his table.

The man grabbed her hand, crushed the long fingers together like a bunch of sticks. She gasped at the sharp pain.

He was staring at her, a chill smile on his full lips. He seemed so respectable; the clean white shirt, the elegant hat, his hair smooth and long like her own, and as black. He had attacked women before — that much was clear — and would do so again.

“I find the notion of a taberna girl composing poetry quite ridiculous, señorita,” he said.

“Then I apologise for educating you, señor.”

He squeezed harder. “Listen, whore...” His lips pulled back to expose yellow teeth. “Don’t deceive yourself. Your ability is as illusory as your beauty.”

Diana tried to tug her hand free, but he was strong. She felt an odd sensation then... a weakening. Fear! She had lived for centuries, her body always regenerating after wounds, but was she truly immortal? Certainly she knew pain. Perhaps she could be killed, if subjected to sufficient violence. Diana had a fascination for the finality of death, but fear had left her long ago, as she gained confidence in her apparent immortality. Why had fear now returned?

She glanced about for help. The other drinkers were more concerned with thoughts of Boney than with her predicament — a man wanted a woman; why not, in these times?

“Tell me your name,” he said.

“Rosalita...” Why had she said that? She was Diana; the other name had pushed out suddenly through her confusion. She did not know any Rosalita.

"Come with me, Rosalita. We’ll see what’s beneath that beauty of yours.” He moved to get up, still gripping her hand.

She didn’t know where the power came from, perhaps from the fear, but the pain in her fingers seemed to sweep through her, whirl around and flow outward again. She watched as the skin on his neck ballooned, as if inflated from within. He released her and grasped at his throat, his eyes wide.

Purple lines swelled on his neck. He gurgled through a constricted windpipe. Then the stretching skin, bloated like a gorging leech, could bear no more. It burst. The noise was like a sharp slap in her face. She screamed and fell back, spattered with blood.

His body thudded to the floor and juddered. Blood flowed into the joints between the stone slabs, its crimson lines dividing like the branches of some grisly irrigation network. She stooped and touched a finger to the blood, licked the tip and scowled at that familiar taste.

Diana had killed so many times before, but in the human way — iron and steel, stab and slash. This was different. As uncontrollable as her urge to taste the blood of the crazed killers. Some deep part of her had been stirred, or perhaps, even now, her abilities were maturing, leading her on to a greater destiny. Perhaps her fear now was a fear of herself.

People in the taberna were rising from their seats. She glimpsed horrified faces staring at her. Then she ran out into the dark street.

* * *

Proceed to part 3...