

## The Periodic Adventures of Señor 105: Book 004

##

## "Señor 105 and the Secret Santa"

## or

## "El Santa, el barbudo de plata"

### By Stuart Douglas

Señor 105 and the Secret Santa

Published by Manleigh Books at Smashwords

December 2012

Copyright © Stuart Douglas 2012

Señor 105 © Cody Quijano-Schell

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is wholly co-incidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding, cover or e-book other than which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

The Northern Andean Highlands, Peru, c. 500BC

Señor 105 thought he knew every village and town between his home and the banks of the Suchiate River to the south, but the collection of huts he could see wavering and shimmering in front of him was entirely new. He felt Pitch's breath against his face as the demon turned to whisper in his ear.

'What do you think? A trifle unusual, wouldn't you say?' he asked and as he spoke 105 could feel doors opening inside his head, allowing a bitterly cold wind to scour him from within.

'A little,' 105 admitted, keeping every sign of pain from his voice. _Remember who you are_. _Remember what you come from_.

His head felt hollow yet filled to bursting with something intangible, in the same way a starving man might feel the emptiness in his stomach as something other than a simple absence. A bruise was spreading just beneath his heart, a reminder of Pitch's earlier rage. 105 wondered if he were hallucinating the sensation of blood running like a waterfall _inside_ his skin. Still, he stood upright and controlled his breathing as best he could.

Whatever happened he would not give Pitch any more satisfaction than he absolutely must.

He rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers down the reassuring smoothness of his mask. _Remember who you are_ , he thought. _Remember those who came before you_. Pushing away his fatigue, mentally willing the toxins to leave his bloodstream, 105's vision cleared and he began to make out more and more detail in the village. To one side, someone crouched beside a fire pit, feeding small twigs into the flames. Over there, a dog pushed its nose under a blanket and sniffed noisily at whatever lay covered beneath. Closer by, a flap opened in the doorway of a larger central building, and a hairy figure emerged into the cool dusk air, scratching furiously at its long beard.

_Nick_! 105 almost shouted, but caught himself just in time and changed the greeting into a cough which caused his ribs to ache anew and the bruise to blossom like a time-lapse flower inside his chest. Best to give nothing away to Pitch, no matter how he might be acting at the moment. Besides, now he looked closer, he could see he was wrong. That couldn't be Nick, even though the resemblance was striking. As the hairy man moved around the village he was illuminated by first the fire, and then the rays of the dying sun. He was naked, save for a cloak which he wrapped around himself while 105 watched, then belted with what looked like a complete snake skin. His hair was long and unkempt, clearly never brushed, and appeared to be the same white/grey colour as his beard. He was short - 105 guessed about five foot three or four – but heavily, almost freakishly, muscled like a super-hero from an American comic strip.

His circuit of the village complete, the man ducked back into his hut.

'Pay attention, this is rather a good bit...' Pitch murmured in his ear. 105 was surprised to realise he had forgotten all about the demon. The man he had been watching was possessed of a power which made everything else seem unimportant. He needed no prompting to pay close attention to _this_ man.

The flap in the hut opened again, and the man re-appeared. In one hand he held the antler of an animal; in the other, he held a drum. He walked in a straight line from his hut into the clearing in front of it. He turned round and _shivered_ , the air around his body shimmering and refracting the last rays of light coming from the setting sun. He turned again and faced the village, presenting his back to 105, and began to strike the drum with the antler.

BOOM!

As the sound radiated out from the drum, 105 could feel the heavy beat deep in the pit of his belly, like taking a car over an unexpected dip in the road. He turned to ask Pitch what was happening, but the demon had disappeared at some point, leaving the masked wrestler alone on the edge of the village. No matter. He needed Pitch to transport him back to his own time, but for the moment he was content to watch the events unfolding in front of him.

Again the drum sounded, dragging his attention back to the clearing, where a small crowd of villagers had gathered round a fire which flickered and popped, providing the only light against the darkness of the starless night sky. Hairy Man struck the drum a third time, then placed it carefully on the ground at his feet. He lifted his head back and shouted something into the air, a painful, guttural sound, with an echo of splintering bone and tearing flesh in it.

From the hut, a second figure stumbled out. A sack made from the head of some form of big cat had been pulled over his head and secured beneath his chin. His hands were tied tight behind his back, pulling his shoulders up and back, turning his silhouette alien in the firelight. As he walked forward, one villager put out a foot and tripped him. Immediately, Hairy Man took two steps forward and back-handed the villager across the face, sending him sprawling. He gave out another angry, wordless bark and two men rushed forward and helped the prisoner to his feet, pulling him into place directly in front of the fire.

There was something in the air now; 105 could feel it - A taste of ozone in the mouth, but also a hint of burning on the breeze. He was reminded of a bull-fight he had once attended. Here the crowd was smaller and nobody was pretending that the spectacle before them was sport, but still...there would death in this circle and blood in the dirt before long. His instincts were telling him to stand, to intervene, but he could no more get to his feet than he could fly. With terrific effort he managed to whisper 'Pitch?' but there was no reply.

He watched, helpless, as the hairy man pulled the jaguar-faced sack from the prisoner's head.

The face thus exposed was heavily bearded, with long matted hair and thick eyebrows, leaving only a pale letterbox of skin visible. The man's mouth was wrong, somehow, though 105 could not put his finger on the problem.

Until the man spoke.

The sound which came out of the man's mouth was not quite human, made up of half-formed words and noises which he felt he should understand but which remained stubbornly just short of comprehension. Blood ran freely down the man's chin and across his chest. It pooled at the loincloth which was the man's only clothing, then ran sideways along his waistband, a bloody belt holding the man together. 105 wondered if perhaps he had had his tongue cut out.

Whatever had happened to him and whatever it was he had said, it was immediately apparent that it had angered Hairy Man, who poked him in the chest and hissed something at him which 105 could not make out. It seemed to be an accusation. The captive man shook his head vigorously, which only angered Hairy Man all the more. With an angry shrug, he rubbed the sack which he held in his prisoner's face, then pulled it back over the man's head. He gestured to the crowd and one man stepped forward, holding a large bunch of jagged leaves, which he handed to Hairy Man. To 105's surprise Hairy Man began to whip this newcomer with the leaves, the sharp thorns catching on his skin and drawing blood. Even more surprising, with each blow and each tiny red droplet of blood, the dust on the ground began to swirl and dance, twisting itself into ever stranger shapes, before budding off, one then another, until ten small dust tornadoes vibrated in place, surrounding Hairy Man.

Even with his head covered, the captive man knew that something was happening, though how he could tell, 105 had no idea. As he watched, the dust devils solidified, lengthening slightly, tendrils of dust extending from each corner while a larger one extruded from the centre of the tornado's apex. _Like stars_ , thought 105. _Or dolls._

With a soft 'phut' sound each ball of dust was suddenly recognisable as a small, naked human shape. 105 wondered for a moment if they were children, if this was how these people reproduced. But as their soft frames hardened, as nose and eyes appeared above wide mouths full of sharp teeth, and fingers grew out from palms with nails extended cruelly from their tips, 105 realised what they really were.

Weapons.

He had no time to recoil, never mind intervene, before the ten dust devils launched themselves on the captive man, ripping and tearing and chewing on his still living flesh. And all the while Hairy Man and the other villagers stood around them and watched.

It took no more than two minutes for the little devils to reduce their victim to nothing more than a skeleton. Again, 105 was reminded of something from American pop culture – this time a cartoon he had once watched with Rodrigo. A grinning piranha had stripped a cow of all flesh in a comic whirlwind. The cartoon had ended with the skeletal cow blushing madly as it covered its denuded frame with its hoofs and edged off-screen. Looking at the pile of bones, some with a few stringy shreds of flesh still attached, 105 expected nothing similar here. As Hairy Man picked up the remnants which had recently been a man and dropped them, one at a time, into the sack, 105 felt his strength returning. Too late, though.

He needed to find Pitch and to get out of this place, wherever it was. He turned on his stomach and began to edge away from the village, away from the carnage he had just been obliged to witness. As he moved off into the trees, he heard Hairy Man shouting behind him, finally saying something which 105 understood.

'Ho ho ho,' he said.

Mexico City, 2470 or so years later (and also two days earlier)

Señor 105, masked wrestler, sometime detective and amateur scientist, slumped into the soft orange sofa in his den and gave out a hugely satisfied groan. It was good finally to sit down and relax. This last week spent chasing the Monarch across Russia had been exhausting enough, but to return home to Mexico just in time to discover that David Crosby, under the influence of alien drugs harvested from the Chicxulub crater, had attempted to set up the People's Republic of California? That would tire out even the most virile and highly trained of men. All he wanted now was a hot bath, clean clothes and twenty-four hours of uninterrupted sleep.

He reached down to the thick white carpet and fished the television's remote control out from amongst the heavy pile. A flick of the wrist to untangle the cable which connected the control to the tv and he was set. The news would be in on in a moment and he was keen to make sure that the American newspaper people had stuck to their agreement not to report anything about the Crosby incident. The album _Crosby, Stills and Nash_ had been his favourite of the previous year and he felt he owed the singer some leeway in return. And besides, he doubted Crosby would ever touch drugs again.

There was nothing on the news except for the usual reports of financial problems within the government and the problems caused by left-wingers and student insurrectionists. 105 allowed himself to sink into the sofa. His eyes began slowly to close, almost against his will. Fifteen minutes, he thought to himself. Just a nap, then I'll go and run a bath. The sound of the television faded away and he was only slightly aware of the flutter of his eyelids as they forced themselves closed—

'Señor! Señor! It is time!'

Rodrigo's shrill voice jerked 105 back from the edge of sleep and dumped him, disconcerted and grumpy, back into reality. He sat upright quickly, feeling oddly and unfairly guilty. 'What is it, Rodrigo? Time for what?' Immediately he felt more guilty still, though now he appreciated that the feeling was not unfair at all. There was no call to snap at the boy; how was he to know that 105 had nodded off? 105 ran a hand across the soft leather of his mask and continued in a far softer tone. 'Time for what, Rodrigo? Are we expected somewhere?'

'For Christmas shopping, Monsieur!'

Another voice entered the conversation, a lilting, almost musical voice, with more than a hint of Europe about it. As ever, 105 felt his own voice to be primitive and rough compared to Sheila's sing-song tones. He never tired of hearing her speak. But wait—

'Christmas shopping! Of course! Today is the day that Quixano's unveils its annual festive animatronic extravaganza, is it? Forgive me, my friends. I have been so busy for the past week or so that I did not even realise that today was the 11th of December. Just let me quickly wash up and we can take the car into town to watch the unveiling!'

As his friends disappeared into the rest of the house to get ready, 105 smiled to himself. Tired he may have been, but nothing invigorates a man so much as the enthusiasm of those he loves.

Cupid could barely see, but he knew he had only one chance to save himself. Across the snowy field, dotted with oceans of melt and hillocks of slush, he could sense rather than see the communicator his friend, Señor 105, had given him. _Should you ever need me, press this button and I will come_. He could hear the wrestler's words clear as a sharp winter day and wondered if he would ever hear him speak again.

Cupid's scorched wings had been stripped of feathers by the attack of the red demon. They were splayed across the snowy ground like the fossilised fingers of some prehistoric giant. His plump little arms were bruised from wrist to shoulder, all the muddy, indistinct colours of a particularly painful rainbow. The last blow – the one which had knocked him half a mile across the Pole – had ripped across his face, causing the skin to peel back in a thin, bloody cut and closing one eye in a deep purple swelling. Fortunately, it had also thrown him clear of even the demon's hell-borne eyesight.

It was that which had saved him.

For the moment.

Somewhere in the storm, the demon bellowed his rage and began to move in Cupid's direction.

The shopping mall was only a couple of years old but already it was showing signs of wear and tear. This is what happens when you situate a metal and brick shopping center on the edge of town, thought 105, shaking his head imperceptibly. There's nothing to stop the wind and the rain from battering the building. Better to build in town. He was suddenly aware that Rodrigo was standing, holding Sheila's string, and looking up at him. He was getting old, standing complaining to himself in a mall parking lot. He smiled wryly at his two friends, and beckoned that Rodrigo should lead the way inside.

The interior of the mall was far more pleasing than the rusty, crumbling exterior. The jingle of seasonal tunes filled the air, and everywhere he looked 105 saw festive decoration, bright colors and bunting, and representations of Santa Claus. Round the walls, large shops windows shone with the promise of gifts within. At the far end of the mall, a church choir was setting up; 105 could see the choirmaster directing singers hurriedly into their places. But that would have to wait, because the main event was about to take place – the unveiling of Quixano's Christmas Tableau and Animatronic Extravaganza.

Rodrigo was already in place, standing right at the front of the crowd in front of Quixano's Department Store. He had shortened Sheila's string so as not to block the view of those behind him, but left it long enough that the little Sentient could see all that was going on. What a considerate young man he is turning into, 105 reflected with pleasure. He made his way politely through the mass of people until he stood behind the youngster. He tapped Rodrigo on the shoulder and returned his excited smile.

'Remember last year, Señor,' Rodrigo exclaimed. 'That was my favourite, I think!'

Each year the staff at Quixano's designed and built a magnificent festive scene in the front window of the shop, complete with robotic elves and reindeer, a wonderfully authentic Santa Claus and the largest Christmas tree that anyone ever saw. All of this effort was carried out under the direction of the manager and owner, the mysterious Comandante Riri, a tall, white haired, pale skinned man reputed to have fled to Mexico from the area of Chile now known as Puerto Williams, the southernmost city in the world.

The previous year, 105 recalled, the animatronic elves had sung 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas' then danced the jitterbug with the reindeer. It had been quite special, he had to admit. It was difficult to envisage a way in which even Comandante Riri could make improve on that. Mister Tea, who had been visiting, had called it 'quite splendid', and when Iris Wildthyme had stopped by in 'sixty-four she had said she had never seen the like, even on Hyspero, which she claimed was famous across the multiverse on account of 'throwing lovely dos'.

As 105 waited for the drapes covering the window to be pulled away, he idly wondered what all of his friends were doing this Christmas.

Cupid crept across the ice and packed snow on his belly. The snow whirled all around him, melting against his bare skin and soaking his diaper through. He had all but collapsed when he pulled the last feathers from his wings, but they were a dirty black color where they had burned and he needed to be entirely white for his plan, such as it was, to work. His only hope was that the snow on the ground and in air, combined with the pale white of his skin would hide him from the demon's glowing eyes. He crept on as darkness fell round him and the snow settled ever deeper in front. In the gathering dark, something roared.

The roar of the crowd nearly deafened Señor 105. The drapes had finally been pulled away by the Comandante himself, revealing a stunning feat of imagination and modern robotics. At the rear of the display, what appeared to be a slice of the Andes dominated the background, complete with snow covered peaks, deep valleys and what 105 could have sworn was a miniature family of Bigfoot wandering round immediately above the snowline.

The attention to detail was astonishing but the real treat lay in front of the mountain range. In the center sat an ornate golden throne destined, 105 presumed, for Santa. On each side torrents of silver paper flowed from the walls in two magnificent waterfalls, magnified by cunningly placed mirrors. The effect made it appear as though they filled the entire shop. And within the waterfalls mermaids swam, or at least it seemed that way. In fact 105 knew that each mermaid – and each elf riding alongside on the back of a dolphin – was simply a form of mechanised mannequin, an animatronic automaton controlled by a master panel in the shop's back office. As each mechanical mermaid swooped down, along the outside of the waterfall, she threw the golden trident she was carrying at the opposite side of the window, where it stuck into the wall, there to be scooped up by an elf and handed to a different mermaid. The dazzling interconnected movement of the mermaids, dolphins and elves was enough to make 105 dizzy, even while he applauded the technical skills required to make this all work so smoothly _. Just imagine the potential carnage if these robots ever decided to break free and declare themselves independent._ The thought caused an unexpected chill to run its fingers down his spine, until he shook his head at his own foolishness. As though what were essentially glorified puppets could ever threaten anyone!

Just then someone let out a mighty scream and pointed in horror at something in the display which 105 was unable see from his vantage point. He began to move towards the disturbance, just as another terror-filled wail joined the first.

The demon couldn't be far away now. A moment before – or, perhaps, an hour before – he'd been sure the creature was toying with him, allowing him a taste of freedom before crushing him at the last moment. He wondered if he'd really heard breathing nearby, and thought he'd seen red eyes in the darkness. The little man swam through the snow, increasing his pace even as his energy levels decreased, like a man flooring the accelerator in his car in the hope it will reach its destination before the gas runs out. He could just about make out his goal a few yards ahead, but the snow was a blizzard now and sheets of freezing sleet disoriented him, turned him around and made any forward progress difficult.

There! His fingers closed over the communicator at the same time as the snow all around him melted away as the demon blasted the area nearby. Boiling water burned as it touched Cupid's skin, and he was forced to use the very last of his energy in order to roll out of the way, lest he be boiled alive. But that done, he was a spent force and so, with a sigh like the air leaving an unstrung balloon, he let his one good eye close and his limbs relax into the all-embracing snow drifts.

Before he blacked out completely, however, he did the one thing he still could. He pressed the orange button on top of the communicator. A low, deep hum came off the device, which brought a smile to Cupid's ruined face. He might be in a tight spot, but Señor 105 was coming.

Later on, Rodrigo described the look on Señor 105's face as comical. Reacting to the screams and with the thought of blood-thirsty killer robots still fresh in his mind, he had bundled half a dozen men out of his way in his haste to prevent the otherwise inevitable slaughter. With one final mighty heave he leapt right over one man, grabbed the first of the screaming women, shoved her behind him and twisted back round, fists raised, ready to defend the good people nearby from whatever assailed them. As the screams turned to laughter, 105 gaped at the latest addition to the festive tableau.

An animatronic jaguar carrying a red trident, and wearing a papier-mache headpiece, painted with the face of a devil, jumped and capered underneath one of the waterfalls. A clean square of flooring showed how the feline devil had entered the display. 105 supposed it would have given any woman of a nervous disposition a shock, though he did wonder exactly what the beast was intended to represent. He shrugged inwardly – Comandante Riri's displays frequently made little actual sense, when examined closely. 105 raised an apologetic hand to the people he had manhandled and sheepishly made his way back to his friends.

'Better to check such alarms and risk looking foolish than to ignore them and so allow innocents to be harmed,' he said and then, realising how pompous that sounded, smiled beneath his mask and continued, 'Why don't we go shopping now? I have gifts to buy!'

With an excited Rodrigo leading the way, they made their way to the big double doors of the mall and went inside.

The sun had set by the time the little party returned home. Sheila had intended to wrap her presents immediately and then place them beneath the Christmas tree which dominated the lounge. Rodrigo, however, had no patience and saw little reason to wait for Christmas Day. He had insisted that both Sheila and 105 open their presents at once and, not wishing to disappoint the eager youngster, they had agreed.

Sheila had been delighted with the set of tartan ribbons Rodrigo had bought her; 105 could hear her now, laughing upstairs with him as she tried first one then another on against her shiny red exterior. As for his own present...

Señor 105 lobbed the book onto the seat opposite him. Even across the room, the blocky, red text of the title glared accusingly at him.

THE CHARIOTS OF THE GODS?

He appreciated the fact that Rodrigo had attempted to get him a gift which would appeal to his twin interests in prehistory and futurism. The perfect combination of topics, 105 had called it when he had opened the gaily-wrapped gift. Rodrigo had beamed with pleasure and 105 had given himself a mental pat on the back for the quality of his own feigned enthusiasm. It was not that he disliked the festive period – far from it – but he was aware of the book and its controversial author and, if truth be told he found the man's theories more than a little disturbing. For one reason or another, he had some personal experience of historic times – though not quite so far back - but surely this Von Daniken could not have even that advantage?

Unless...but all further thought on the matter was curtailed by a blaring sound which suddenly emitted from a panel set into the armrest of his chair. 105 flicked a switch and turned a dial to the left, tuning in the receiver in order to identify which of his friends was in trouble, and where. As soon as the location identifier highlighted the North Pole, 105 was out of his chair and on his way to his helipad, shouting as he ran for Sheila to prepare the house to receive an injured man.

'Come on, ma petite. Sit up for Sheila and take a little soup.' Sheila's string was wrapped around the bottom of Cupid's bed; a slight breeze coming through the open window made her bob up and down slightly. Cupid, opening his eyes for the first time since the day he had been brought to this...hospital?... thought it made her look as though she were smiling. He pushed himself up with his elbows, trying his very best not to wince in pain.

The soup bowl sat on a curved, pale yellow plastic tray which itself remained upright on the bed due to extensible legs with wide, flat feet. The bowl was made of the same material and in the same color as the tray. Cupid picked up the provided spoon and was surprised to see, inset into its side, the flicker of a digital time display. 4.27.

'Is that time in the afternoon or morning, Mademoiselle Sheila?' he asked. They were old friends, but he retained a rather formal mode of address when speaking to the Sentient, both because he thought it appropriate and because he knew she found the formality more attractive than his usual Rat Pack cum surf bum chat. Cupid preferred females of all species to find him attractive. It was his defining quality, a friend had once said.

Shelia bobbed to one side in the soft breeze. Like she's tilting her head, Cupid thought. 'In the afternoon, of course. I would not wake you in the middle of the night, not even for this delicious French onion soup.'

Cupid took a sip of the soup, carefully, since it still hurt to move. 'This is wonderful,' he said.

'Why, thank you, my friend!' The warm sound of Señor 105's voice enveloped the room as he strode in, just in time to misunderstand Cupid's praise. 'I bought the entire set – tray, bowl and cutlery – at a Futurist Show in Mexico City. In fact, at the very show where I battled Andy Warhol and his Fifteen-Minutes-of-Fame Machine. You remember, Sheila? Warhol turned out to be under the control of his hair dye and we had to shave him bald to save his life. He never thanked us. '

'In the confusion, I actually left the set lying on a table in the dealers' room, but luckily some kind soul sent it on later.'

Taking care not to brush against Cupid's still wounded body, 105 sat down on the edge of the bed, and examined the more visible of the little man's injuries. 'You seem to be healing quite well.' He was loathe to tire Cupid out any more than he had to, but he was very conscious of the fact that several days had passed, and he still had no idea who had attacked his friend, or why. When he had arrived at the Pole, he had discovered Cupid unconscious and near to death amidst the signs of battle, but there had been no time for anything but a cursory investigation. The winged man had regained his senses for long enough to recognise his rescuers, but had then fallen into a deep, healing sleep, from which he had not woken until now.

'When we found you, you mentioned a demon? 105 asked softly. 'But you did not mention a name, nor a reason for the assault. I have to ask – is this something to do with the Defence?'

Cupid started in surprise at 105's words, and glanced worriedly at Sheila.

'It's OK,' 105 continued, noticing the look. 'Sheila knows that you are one of the Defenders. I felt I owed it to her to explain why you were so important, over and above being our friend.'

Not entirely satisfied, but willing to trust 105 for the moment, Cupid relaxed back into the plump pillows and began to tell his story.

"You know that he's been obsessed for months with the idea that Pitch is back?' Cupid began obliquely. 'But we didn't believe him. Not even when he assembled the entire Defence and showed us his 'dossier'. We all thought the same thing – the old man's going senile, seeing danger where there's none. And the dossier was just some blurry photos of some dude in red. Coulda been Pitch, coulda been some hippie in a red jacket. Coulda been the old man himself, for that matter, if he dropped a hundred pounds. But the old guy insisted it was Pitch, large as life and back in town. Well we played along, but nobody took him seriously. Jack said he'd have a word with some of the more whacked-out dudes he knows, test the water, see if it comes up frozen, that sorta thing, but me—' He took a last sip of his soup and replaced the spoon carefully in the bowl before continuing. 'Me, I took off for the bright lights, baby. You _better_ believe it. I had tickets for the Dead in 'Frisco and the promise of an after gig party with Nancy Sinatra and Richard Carpenter; you don't turn down that sort of peachy deal for a geriatric with paranoia eating him alive. So yeah, I headed off down the Bay, hooked up with Pete Fonda on the way, went and saw Garcia tear the stage up. God, man, it was some trip. Next thing I know it's two days later, I wake up just in time to see Cher tiptoeing out the hotel room, big blue shoes in her hands, and the Defence Alarm beeping like a coked-up Simon Says in the corner. I was out of that hotel in two minutes, tops, and at the Pole within the half hour, but I was too late. The old man was gone, and his workshop was all smashed to shit. Most of the little guys had run for it, but every so often I'd turn over a chunk of plastic or a bag full of broken Barbies, and there'd be one of them lying underneath.' He sniffed, the memory moving him visibly. 'Anyway, I finally finds one who's still able to talk and he says that this thing from the world's worst trip came outta nowhere and really did a number on the troops. Like the devil, man, he says, like the actual fucking devil. That'll be Pitch, I says. Killed any of us got in his way, he says, smashed up everything he could get his hands on, then grabbed the old man, threw him into a sack and disappeared back into the snow.

'You know me, 105. I've never given up without a fight in my life, so I shoved a coupla air pistols in my diaper and headed straight after them with my freak flag flying high. Caught up with Pitch just about where you found me. I tried the old diversion trick, make him think I was going to magic his ass with my juju, then shot the breadhead bastard with my pistols.' He shook his head. 'Never made a mark on him. He just laughed and set fire to my wings. The cat burned them like they was paper, man. I could smell the feathers as they lit up. I could _smell_ them.'

He said nothing more for a minute, remembering afresh the horror of that moment. Then—

'There was no sign of Santa, though. The elf said that Pitch took him, but if he did he'd stashed the old guy before I caught up.'

'Bu—' Sheila was trying to speak, but for some reason the words failed to come. She was stunned; that was the only word for it. When 105 had told her of the secret group, La Défense de la Monde, she had been flattered and fascinated in equal measure. She would never have guessed that Cupid, Mother Night and the other creatures she has always assumed were mythical were, in reality, a crack group dedicated to protecting the Earth from supernatural menace.

Once 105 had explained, though, it made a certain degree of sense. Cupid was an alien, from a frozen and dead planet, marooned here millennia ago. Mother Night and Mother Courage were a rather sweet elderly lesbian couple from the 14th century who had stumbled on an amulet which bestowed – amongst other powers – ever-lasting life. Theo Possible was...well she had never really understood the explanation for that peculiar individual. Over hundreds of years they had become aware of one another and, in time, had bonded to protect the planet against anything the cosmos chose to throw at it. It was, Sheila thought, quite a beautiful thing.

But Santa? A member of _La Défense_? Preposterous. If Pere Noel were real someone would have spotted him climbing down a chimney by now. And what could he do in such a team anyway? An obese old man who is only active one night a year. She put that very question to 105 and Cupid as soon as the latter stopped speaking.

'What does the old guy _do,_ lady?' Cupid asked, temporarily forgetting to be charming. 'He runs the Defence, of course. The whole thing was his idea.' He turned to 105. 'Since you've told her anyway, could you fill her in on the details? Because I'm dead beat and need to get some zees, man.' He lay back on the pillows and closed his eyes. 105 beckoned for Sheila to follow him as he slipped through the bedroom door into the hallway beyond.

'I am sorry that Cupid lost his customary good humor just now, my dear. But the whole of the Defence hold Nicholas – Santa – very close to their hearts. They will not rest until he is safe again – and nor shall we. It is best if I do not go into great detail about Nick's role within the Defence, but sufficient to say that if he is not found before Christmas Eve then things could turn out very badly for the Earth.' He looked at the little balloon and sighed. 'This is likely to be very dangerous, Sheila. I intend to go back to the place where I found Cupid. You must stay here and look after our guest. And Rodrigo, too. He must know nothing of what has occurred, Sheila. I fear that he might try and follow me, and Pitch – if the stories are to be believed – is one of the most deadly beings the world has ever known.'

'Stories?' asked Sheila, hopefully.

105 took a moment to reply, stroking his fingers through his greying beard, evidently unsure how much to tell his friend. With a decisive nod, he came to a decision and spoke quietly to the bobbing balloon in front of him. 'I – we – believe that Pitch is a demon from some infernal location unmapped by mankind. Call it Hell if you wish, but whatever and wherever it is, this region is so well hidden that nobody has ever managed to trace it. Pitch himself has been appearing, the story tellers say, since before history was written down. He is the Devil and the Trickster, red as blood and tall as a giant, carrying his deadly trident, the merest touch of which will boil the flesh from your bones. Or so they say. All I know is that he hates the Defence and has attacked them before. This is his first success, however.' He attempted to reassure Sheila, but they both knew that his smile was false. 'I must go now, in any case. The weather will be inclement and I must check for clues before everything is covered by the snow.'

He bowed, then strode away, heading for the helipad once more.

It can dangerous to land a helicopter at the Pole but 105 was an experienced pilot and managed to bring the little machine to earth with barely a tremor. The blizzard had stopped, fortunately, and the sun come out, turning the region into a single sheet of pure, unsullied white beneath a similarly unbroken blanket of palest blue. At moments like this, 105 considered, he could understand why Santa chose to make his base here.

Less fortunately, before the snow stopped it had covered every inch of the ground with a fresh layer. Any evidence which had been there had been entirely eradicated.

_Not eradicated. Covered up._ 105 surprised himself with the thought. It was true that the snow had coated everything for miles around in a uniform covering but it was not so deep that it could completely disguise the underlying shape of the ground beneath. Over there, a mile or so across the flat plain; what had caused the deep dip in the earth, like the Chicxulub crater seen from space? He checked his snow shoes were securely fastened and began to tramp in the direction of the mysterious indentation.

Back at Señor 105's home, Cupid sat bolt upright in his bed. 'Beware the Jisa!' he shouted, 'Defenders! Beware the Jaguar Men!' But there was nobody in the room to hear him and by the time Rodrigo came hurrying to check on the commotion, the little man was asleep again, and could not be woken.

105 prodded a finger into the light dusting of snow. _Surely, it would be more natural for the snow to pile up high in deep indentations like this?_ Here and there the snow had disappeared altogether, exposing grey rock underneath. It was hardly surprising really; the ground under his hand was warm to the touch, as it was throughout this little hollow in the earth.

After half an hour of meticulous searching, he believed he had found the heat source, or at least a path to it. Here, under the paint-thin coat of snow, he had found four slender but deep holes in the rock, covering about eight inches in an up-turned semi-circle, like a frown. Below this curve, and slightly to the left, was another such hold, separated from the others by another few inches. _Fingerholes_. He slid his right hand over the holes, and then pressed his fingers inside and twisted as though unscrewing the lid on a jar.

With a creaking, groaning, cracking sound the entire hollow began to move, shifting along an invisible curve. Rather than a solid chunk of earth, it turned out that the area was actually capped by a separate plate of rock, a foot thick at most, which lay on top of, but unconnected to, the bulk of the rock underneath. Twisting the hidden dial caused this cap to slide into a fissure in the ground.

A heavy metal plate lay exposed underneath. Alongside this, someone had carved the likeness of a jaguar into the rock. 105 smoothed the leather of his mask and twisted the thick, iron wheel in the centre of the plate. For a moment he thought it was going to open, but after a quarter turn it stuck fast, and refused to budge any further, even when 105 removed his jacket to allow himself more room to manoeuvre. He straightened and cast about for other possible entranceways. With nothing in sight but snow and more snow, he squatted down and examined the wheel more closely. This could take some time.

'I'm telling you, it's up there somewhere! And there's no point in pouting, either. Yes, I know I said it was a sexy look but that was 1789. Different times, my love, different times.'

Mother Courage shook her head, ruefully, as she pictured Mother Night up in the attic, her face pinched with irritation as she pushed old suitcases, piles of consecutively numbered magazines and boxes filled with moth eaten clothes to one side. Night had never liked getting her hands dusty, never mind dirty, and especially not to help that little sex pest, Cupid.

'Well try underneath the pile of umbrellas then! If I could get up the damn ladder you know I'd be up there with you right now. And I'd find the thing in about two minutes flat! What do you mean, you'd like to see me try? Just shift the umbrellas and have a look behind them.'

She wheeled herself to the bottom of the ladder and shouted this last sentence up into the little square hole in the hall ceiling, which was the only entrance to the attic. She knew that Night preferred to stick with non-verbal communication but even now, after over five hundred years, she found telepathy easier if she spoke aloud at the same time. The fact that Night had no such choice was awkward, so she tried not to do it too obviously or too often; sometimes, though, only a bad-tempered bellow would do.

'Aha! See! I did say that I remembered putting it up there back in the sixties, didn't I? No, no – the eighteen sixties, dear. When that nice Doctor Hesselius came to visit.' She spun her wheelchair one hundred and eighty degrees with practiced ease, and shot forward a few feet to allow Night room to get down the ladder. As her partner appeared from the hole, balancing an untidy collection of bric-a-brac on her shoulders, Courage kept a watchful eye on her. When Night wobbled and looked as though she might fall, she waved a hand in the air. The ladder shifted slightly underneath Night's feet, restoring her balance, while the parcels lifted from her shoulder and slowly floated downwards. Mother Courage might not have the use of her legs, but she could still move things with her mind.

' _Stop that! I can manage!_ ' snapped Mother Night, irritated as ever by unasked for help. Instantly, Mother Courage's influence evaporated, and the parcels fell the last few feet to the floor. In compensation for her muteness, the mysterious amulet the two had found all those centuries before had given her both the ability to communicate using her mind, but also the power to bend other's wills to her own. She tried to use this latter power sparingly and only in necessity, but when she lost her temper a flurry of invective could have unexpected consequences. She reached the ground without further help. _Sorry, I didn't mean that,_ she 'said' to Courage, who smiled her understanding as she lifted the items Night had retrieved and wheeled herself into the sitting room.

The portal was old, and showed every sign of that fact. Courage remembered when they had found it. It had been some time in the 1920s, during an otherwise unproductive investigation. But if the cult of the Bright Young Things had turned out to be largely harmless, a frivolous fraternity of the young, idle and rich, the portal itself was something else. If the creature who controlled it was summoned correctly, it could be used to move the summoner to any period in time and any location on the planet.

Courage let the portal slide off her knees, onto the floor, where it leant against the wall under the window. To look at, it wasn't the most exiting of objects, she considered. A square of rough wood, three foot on each side and held together by tape at the corners, the only supernatural or arcane element it contained was a crude drawing in its center: a hexagram with a heart at its crown. Courage pushed it with her mind so that it sat more securely against the wall, then wheeled herself back, the better to allow Night to have a look.

_What was it that poor girl said she did to make this work?_ Night asked.

'Exactly? Oh, I'm not sure I can remember exactly. Something about calling on Astoroth or Asgarth or something of that nature.'

Astoroth, I think. Yes, definitely Astoroth. Or maybe Asmaran. Damn!

Mother Courage closed her eyes.

...It had been a cold winter's day, about eight o'clock in the morning. She remembered the frost on the ground making the wheels of her chair slip, and the bare branches of the trees against the dawn skyline. Night's breath had come in clouds of white, billowing over her head, as she pushed the chair up to the door of the house.

The butler who responded to her hearty knock made no attempt to hide his displeasure at the two plainly dressed old ladies cluttering up his doorstep, but Night had found heaving a wheelchair up the long, steep driveway more work than she cared for, and was in no mood for snobby servants. She flicked her mind at the man and he stepped back and bowed his head slightly. 'Please do come in, ladies,' he said, obsequiously. 'Miss Alexandra is in the drawing room with the Master.'

The Master must have heard that, and known who had come to visit. Before they reached the room, they heard the snick of a lock being forced into place and the unmistakable sound of an invocation beginning. 'Open,' Courage commanded, and the lock shot back, followed by the twin doors, which slammed hard into the walls behind them. She'd had a lot of trouble getting doors to swing open gracefully in those days - and besides, she found virgin sacrifice a personal affront.

Night was already through and into the room, however. Courage imagined that they heard her shout _stop!_ right across the city, but even so, it failed to stop the magician from turning the innocent girl into a living weapon. As he attempted to force open a window, she spun in the air, a few feet from the ground, enclosed in a sparkling mist, from which tiny winged _things_ emerged and launched themselves at the two women. Courage felt Night grab the handles of her chair and push her forward at speed, batting the things from the air as they came within range. With all the force of her will she grabbed a nearby vase and launched it at the girl. Instantly, she fell to the floor, the mist fading to nothing along with the flying things. Night moved towards her unmoving form, but the magician was quicker, pushing the old woman to one side. In the clearing air, the portal was exposed on the wall, the hexagram pulsing redly as though the daubs of paint were blood in living veins. 'Help me, Astoroth!' the man shouted just as Mother Night slammed a chair across her back, knocking him out cold...

'Astoroth.' Courage opened her eyes as she spoke. Mother Night smiled her appreciation. _Well done, dear heart. Before you set the portal up, though, I think we might need some assistance. Whatever that ludicrous imp Cupid tried to warn us about, and whoever these Jisa are, I suspect we may have need of a certain amount of brawn._

'Theo?'

Unreachable, I believe. As is Dogberry, before you ask. Nobody's seen that old reprobate since the twenties.

'What about Señor 105? He has responsibilities these days but he's always proven willing in the past.'

Night nodded her agreement. As Courage pulled down a book on ancient cultures, she heard the familiar voice in her head. _Señor 105? Can you hear me?_

Señor 105's fingers were blue with cold and sent shooting pains up into his arms every time he touched anything. He blew on them and clenched and unclenched his hands in an effort to restore some circulation. He suspected he had little time to waste.

'Move! Move!'

The voice was guttural and rough, the Spanish approximate at best, and with an accent 105 couldn't place. He sat, unmoving, as a dirty red hand reached past him and effortlessly turned the wheel forty-five degrees then flipped the heavy metal up, exposing a ladder leading down into the Earth.

'I'm obliged,' he said, turning slowly round. He barely had time to register cold eyes before the same red hand smashed into the side of his head and sent him sprawling in the snow.

He was back on his feet and facing his attacker before that individual had time to press home his advantage. He moved to one side to get a better look at his opponent as the wind abated and the snow died down momentarily.

The figure before him was tall, taller than his own six feet by at least a head. It wore a suit similar to 105's, but where his was well tailored and fitting, the demon's was torn and filthy, and hung loose on its frame. Its skin was a scaly and coloured a bright, malignant red. Two small horns sprouted from the top of its head and, as it circled to face him again, he had a brief glimpse of a forked tail. In one hand it held a leash, connected to a massive black dog, teeth bared, with saliva dripping from its mouth, causing the snow to dissolve with a hiss.

There was little chance that he could hold his own for long against Pitch, 105 knew. The question was not if he would survive, but if any purpose would be served by risking almost certain death. He could retreat now and regroup at home, speak to the Mothers if nothing else, find out if Cupid could remember anything new. There was no shame in living on to fight another day, and only a fool would think otherwise. But if he fled now, he would be no closer to locating Nick, and with his only real lead gone. He doubted very much that the demon would leave the ladder exposed; he would lock the wheel again and disappear, taking all hope of 105 rescuing his friend with him. He continued to circle while he considered how best to turn the situation to his advantage.

Pitch growled and took a single step forward, standing astride the hole in the ground and preventing 105 escaping that way. It raked one clawed hand across his chest before the wrestler could move an inch. _So quick_ , 105 thought. _Too quick._ But the time to retreat had come and gone; all that was left was to defend himself and hope that his many years of training would prove sufficient. The thumping upper-cut which lifted him from his feet answered that question. His head was ringing and he could barely see for stars. He tried to stand but his feet were unwilling to take his weight and he fell back down, hard.

' _Señor 105? Can you hear me?_ ' For the second time in as many minutes an unexpected voice spoke to him.

'Mother Night?' he whispered. It was obviously more than coincidence that the ladies should contact him now. Perhaps they had a plan – but if so he hoped it was one they could put into action immediately. As Pitch loomed over him, he concentrated on the demon's face, praying that Night could see the threat he faced.

_Pitch! Pitch has 105!_ Night recoiled from the malignant, animal fury in the red face which filled her thoughts, momentarily at a loss. She could use her powers to influence most things but at this distance she needed someone to voice her command and 105 was in no fit state to do so. She allowed his vision to occlude her own, so that she could see exactly what he could. He was obviously low down, looking up at his attacker – but there was something else...a dog! Allowing herself no time to baulk at the idea, she slipped her own mind over that of the animal and took control of it.

The dog's brain was small and crudely formed, primarily taken up with thoughts of blood and meat. That very primitiveness would work to her advantage though. It had no vocal cords but it could make sounds, and the simplicity of its brain made it easy for Night to stretch those sounds into short, rudimentary words. _Pitch! Freeze! Stand still!_

105 blinked in confusion. A moment before he had been braced for a killing blow – and then the black dog at Pitch's side had turned its head to one side, looking up at its master, for all the world as though preparing to ask a question. He could have sworn it had then barked – said - 'Pitch! Freeze! Stand still!'

And Pitch had obeyed.

The demon crouched in front of him, its hand still raised. Its eyes flicked from side to side, but otherwise it was unmoving. 105 shuffled backwards in the snow, feeling every bruise and ache in his bones. He was safe for now, but already he thought he could see the slightest of quivering movement in Pitch's legs. Whatever was holding it was not permanent.

'Mother Night? I take it this is your work?' He heard the _yes_ as he levered himself to his feet. 'Pitch is frozen. For now. Can you get me out of here?'

There was no reply. 105 swayed in the cold wind and watched as Pitch's fingers began to curl and uncurl slowly.

The Mothers' neat and tidy home was in complete disarray. Mother Courage sat surrounded by open books, each discarded in its turn as it proved worthless to her current requirements. She knew that she had once read a description of Jisa culture, but even though she had used her mind to pull volume after volume on ancient races from the shelves, the specific book continued to elude her. Night wasn't helping, either. _Hurry up!_ she complained, as though Courage were deliberately delaying, refusing to find the passage she needed to securely anchor the other side of the portal. She knew it was just Night's way, to turn worry and fear into ill-tempered complaint, but still, it was less than useful.

'Be quiet, in the name of—'

There it was. A pencil sketch of a Jisa village above a long description of the pre-Cortez Mexican culture itself. 'Here,' she said, passing the book to Night. 'This is where we want the portal to open. Now let me see wherever it is that 105 is just now so I can be sure that I don't land the portal on top of his head.'

She wheeled herself out of the way as Night began to trace the hexagram with her finger. It would take all of her strength to send the portal to the Pole and she could do nothing to help with the summoning in any case. She just hoped they weren't too late.

Pitch was smiling. 105 had looked for something to use as a weapon but the thick snow covered anything which might have been useful. The demon remained immobile but there could only be minutes until that ceased to be the case. He considered the helicopter, but there doubted that he could get it into the air in the storm which surrounded them. 105 prided himself that he never allowed himself to despair, but as he watched Pitch slowly shift first one foot, then the other, in the beginnings of a shambling walk, he could see no way out.

_It has to be now,_ Night said with a grimace. _I can only hold the other end of the portal in place for a little while. You need to send it to 105 now._

Courage nodded her understanding and placed a hand on either side of the frame of the device. She pictured the wrestler standing unsteadily in the snow, the demon advancing slowly, the dog growling at its feet. She could feel 105's anxiety, Pitch's glee and focused on the emotions as though they were solid rock. The portal began to vibrate against her palms, softly at first, like the wings of an insect, then stronger and with more violence, twisting in her grip like an angry cat, determined to be free. And then it was gone, disappearing between one breath and the next, her fingers closing together with a snap as the object they held blinked from existence.

As she slumped in her chair, she could hear Night speaking to 105.

If he'd had time to think, 105 wondered if he might not have taken his chances with Pitch there in the snow and wind. As it was, the portal Night had warned him about appeared from nowhere just as Pitch broke free of whatever power was holding him in place. It pinged into being in mid-air, a splash of orange and red and green in a cheap frame, as though someone was melting crayons in the air. For a few heartbeats all 105 was aware of was a confusion of moving colors against the white backdrop, as a tall red shape and smaller black one came towards him as one. He had time to register the blow coming but not enough to get himself completely out of the way.

The glancing strike caught his shoulder. He could feel a dull throb travel down one arm and threw a blind punch with his other, grimacing with his own pain as it reached its target. And then he was slipping on the wet surface and falling backwards toward the portal. He saw Pitch reach out for him just as the world slid sideways away from him. As he lost consciousness he had but a moment to wonder, had he escaped?

The Northern Andean Highlands, Peru, c. 500BC

The grass beneath his face was dry and yellow and gripped the ground low and hard as if it feared being ripped away. 105 blinked slowly and raised his head a little from the hard earth. He re-focused and the grass stems blurred into insignificance, revealing a nearby group of trees which, in turn, were replaced by a long stone step, the first of several leading up and beyond his current line of sight. He could hear insects somewhere nearby but other than that, everything was silent. Cautiously, he pressed his palms to the ground and tried to push himself up. Even before his right arm gave way, he felt his numb disconnection from the limb and, high on his shoulder, a sharp pain as the scab on a recently crusted cut split open.

There was no way he could stay here though. Whether Pitch had followed him through the portal or not, the small amount of information Night had been able to give him made him certain that whatever had happened to Nick, these Jisa were involved. He needed to find them and ascertain what that involvement consisted of. Time travel was not something he had a great deal of experience of, but he thought it unlikely that, Narnia-like, only minutes would pass in the present for years spent in the past.

Remembering his wrestling training, he rolled himself to one side and used that momentum to push himself, one armed, to his knees. Using a tree for leverage, he pulled himself to his feet and took in his surroundings.

The stone steps stretched up for some distance as one side of a pyramid, identical to ruins 105 had seen on an expedition a few years previously. This, however, was – if not brand new – obviously a working building. Half way up the steps, but already shrunken to a finger's size, he could see two figures making their way down, a wooden pole carried between them. It seemed as good a place as any to start. The steps were a foot or more high and as he surmounted each one, every cut and bruise on his body reminded him that he was not in the best possible condition. Fortunately, his quarry was making its way towards him, and not running in the opposite direction. He doubted he could even catch Sheila at the moment, never mind fleeing men.

The two men were about twenty steps away when they stopped dead. One pulled the wooden pole from the hands of the other, allowing the chicken corpses they carried to slip to the ground. He brandished it in front of him as the second man turned and began to run back up the steps. 105 held out his hands, palms forward, and – feeling a little foolish - said 'I come in peace.' He would have said more, but suddenly Pitch flashed past him, up the stairs towards the native man. Unexpectedly, the red demon was shouting the words to Edwin Starr's anti-Vietnam song, 'War' and waving his arms above his head. It was almost comical, but the native dropped his pole and ran after his compatriot, none the less. Pitch stopped and turned, exposing the portal held tightly in his hands. He had a wry smile, of all things, on his face.

'Sorry about that, 105...' He frowned. 'Must I call you that? Do you have no _real_ name? I do feel rather foolish mouthing a numeral every time I address you.'

105 said nothing. His mask meant that only his eyes might betray his confusion at this new, urbane Pitch, and he kept them unblinking and cold as the demon continued to speak.

'Surely you don't fear that my knowing your real name will give me power over you? Are you really so superstitious, my Mexican friend? The only power which knowing your name would give me is the power to attract your attention in a moderately crowded room.' He shrugged, clearly amused. 'Very well, 105 it shall remain.' He waved an arm in the direction of the fleeing men, now near the top of the pyramid. 'We can follow those simple fellows and question them, but you know what? I doubt they're great conversationalists or have a wide knowledge of the world around them. In my experience,' he concluded, indicating the dead birds in the dust, 'men who carry poultry on poles for a living are very rarely stimulating company.' He brushed invisible dust from his jacket sleeve and tutted to himself. 'I suppose you are a tad confused? Well, that's as may be, and there's nothing much I can do about that right now, except to assure you both that I mean you no harm and that everything I have done in the past 24 hours has been done with the very best of intentions and towards a goal which, in time, I believe you will come to applaud.'

105 had yet to speak, but the silence which Pitch left at the end of this speech was obviously intended as a space which he should fill. And yet he could think of nothing _to_ say. Something had happened to Pitch, that much was clear. The almost feral demon he had fought at the North Pole was gone, to be replaced by this sophisticated and sardonic individual. He was reminded of a dinner he had once attended in LA. Boris Karloff was also there and, over drinks afterwards, 105 had expressed surprise that the quiet, mannered man of intellect was one and the same as the Monster in the Frankenstein movies. The change in Pitch was no less dramatic.

Eventually the silence between the two stretched to such an extent that saying anything was preferable to remaining quiet. 'Who are you?' 105 said, immediately regretting it and finding himself oddly embarrassed to appear so _gauche_. He rallied a little and rephrased the query before Pitch could reply. 'What I mean is, what happened to you? Why are you acting so unlike the person I encountered at the Pole?'

Pitch merely tilted his head to one side in reply. The movement pushed a passing thought to the front of 105's mind. Where were Pitch's horns? Actually, now he came to examine the demon more closely, there were several physical differences between the figure in front of him and the creature who attacked him earlier. It was as though someone had smoothed Pitch's physical form to match his new, more refined mental state. _Suave_ , that was the word. His skin was softer, the color less bright so that Pitch more closely resembled a slightly sun-burned anglo than anything more demonic.

As he stared, Pitch evidently came to a decision. 'Perhaps, rather than simply telling you, it would be best if I showed you. Nothing convinces so quickly as the evidence of one's own eyes, after all.' He bowed his head and swept his right arm round in front of himself in invitation. 'After you, my dear 105. Straight through that gap in the trees and follow the path. There is a village at the edge of the jungle I would like to show you, and a gentleman you really should meet.' He paused and considered. 'Hmm, not meet, actually. That could prove dangerous for us both. _See_ , then.'

He was obviously waiting for 105 to precede him into the jungle, but the wrestler was not ready to trust this new Pitch any more than he had the old one. It was always better to have your enemy's back in sight, after all. It was a maxim which had served him well many times over the years, and one he didn't intend to lose sight of now. He returned Pitch's half bow and expansive gesture. 'After you,' he said. Pitch shrugged and led the way into the trees. 105 followed behind, keen for answers but unsure of the questions he needed to ask.

The jungle was hot and wet. The path Pitch had indicated was narrow and lightly overgrown in places, even though it was obviously used on a regular basis by someone. It was just that the jungle was so fiercely alive, 105 thought. It could not be held back if even a single day of effort was missed.

The humidity quickly made 105's suit as damp as the surrounding greenery, and his mask, usually a source of reassurance and strength, had never felt so constricting. To take his mind off the discomfort, he repeated his earlier question to Pitch, keen to know what had changed. He was aware that he should be asking questions about Nick, but before he moved onto that, he needed to know just what kind of being he was dealing with.

Pitch seemed happy to talk. 'I am exactly what I was before,' he said, over his shoulder. 'But here, way back in time and a smidgen across in space, I am more as I once was. More... refined, shall we say?' He stopped suddenly and turned. Where 105 had sweated through the material of his suit, Pitch appeared untouched, his own suit as crisp as ever. 'Doesn't everyone feel more human when they come home?' he asked with a smile, then resumed his march through the forest. 105 followed in his wake, more confused than ever. _Home? How can this be Pitch's home?_ he wondered as he struggled to keep up with the rapidly moving red man. _And what was any of this to do with getting Nick back safely?_

He reviewed what he knew of Pitch, most of it gleaned from Nick, either directly or via the other Defenders. Pitch was an alien, possibly, though they all referred to him as a demon or a devil. Whatever he was, he had suddenly appeared in the world many thousands of years previously and had immediately set out to destroy everything decent he came across. According to Nick he was the embodiment of evil, what he had once called malevolence personified. He came and went largely as he pleased for centuries, until Nick and the other Defenders had confronted him and banished him to...well, somewhere really difficult to escape from. The details had been confusing, and 105 had never really understood if the prison they spoke of was a real place or some sort of conceptual space. Either way, he had not been seen in person for many, many years. And now he was back.

A small voice which had been nagging away at the back of his mind suddenly itself heard. If Pitch had escaped, it made sense for him to come after Nick, the man who had imprisoned him in the first place. But why kidnap him? Why not simply kill him and leave, with nobody any the wiser that he was back at all? Could the near-beast he had encountered at the Pole even have come up with a plan as subtle as kidnap? He doubted it. But this new Pitch? Yes, definitely. 105 had no difficulty imagining this Pitch putting together such a plan.

Pitch shouted his name and gestured at a fallen tree in the path, warning him to take care. 105 raised a hand in acknowledgment. He still had no idea why he was here – wherever here was – or what Pitch intended to do with him or Nick. He could only hope that their destination, and the gentleman Pitch wanted him to see, would bring him closer to understanding.

By the time they'd reached the village and watched Hairy Man and his imps slaughter the unarmed man, 105 was exhausted. They had been walking for most of the day and night without rest and the various injuries he had picked up in the fight with Pitch had now turned into massive purple and black bruises. The pain each time he inhaled suggested either a cracked rib or two, or that he was in far poorer condition than he thought.

Truth be told, he was glad of the break, even if the spectacle had been disturbing. But the unmistakable sound of Nick's booming laugh coming from the hairy...wizard?...had hurt him far more than any physical injury ever could and he had been even more glad to slip away.

He found Pitch quickly after leaving his hiding place at the village edge. The red man was sitting on the ground a few hundred yards away, with the portal propped against a large boulder in front of him. 105 just had enough time to see the familiar molten colours within the frame then, looking up at 105 the entire time, Pitch whispered something under his breath and the colors disappeared, leaving just a square block of wood with something red daubed in its center.

Pitch picked the portal up and laid it flat on the ground beside him. 'As you can see, Señor, I know how this little trinket works. I can turn it off and on with a word and use it to move from here to any time or place in history. I can use it to get you home. Can you do that?'

As before, Pitch's smile was not vicious, but amused. The situation _entertained_ him. Was this some very special form of mental torture, 105 wondered uneasily. He decided it was time he took the initiative.

'Where's Nick?'

Pitch's smile widened even further. 'You know where he is. You just watched him eviscerate a man, didn't you?'

'That wasn't Nick! I've known him for twenty years; he's a man of culture, of breeding. He's a good man, not that murdering savage we just saw. I don't where this is, or who that man is, but he is not the Nick I know!' It was not often that 105 allowed anger to take control of him, but he was near breaking point now. One friend was missing, another had been brutally attacked, he himself had been assaulted and then fired through time and space – and all by the devil who currently stood, gloating, beside him. Allowing himself no time to think, he swung a fist at the demon who, evidently not expecting the attack, stumbled backwards before following with a satisfying thump to the hard ground. 105 towered over him, his fists still clenched, and willed him to stand up, so that he could knock him back down again. But Pitch stayed where he was. In fact all he did was hold the portal up above his head and mutter some words under his breath.

Instantly, the portal flared orangely. Through the miasma of colors,105 could faintly make out a busy sidewalk and people rushing past, about their important business. Pitch tilted the portal to one side and a store front appeared. _Quixanos!_ 105 stepped forward, reaching out , but Pitch leaned back and whispered a new phrase. The portal closed and became a poorly hewn chunk of wood once more. 'I am not so strong here as I will be in the future,' Pitch said, with no trace of a smile. 'But I am the only person on this entire planet who can work the portal and take you home. I suggest, therefore, that you refrain from violent assault for now. Too sharp a blow could knock that knowledge straight out of my head.'

'So tell me what's going on!' 105 managed to unclench his fists, but could not entirely rid himself of the rage which had surged through him like molten lead, leaving him burned up inside. He lowered his voice. 'You seem to want me to trust you, but so far you've given me no reason to do so. You tell me that in time I will understand, that I will one day applaud your aims, but that day is not today. Today you have shown me a beast who you claim is an old friend, that is all.' He was becoming heated again, but he didn't care. This needed to be said. 'Explain yourself now or, portal or not, I will be forced to take action to make you explain.'

He fell silent, and waited as the silence grew between them. Pitch looked up and down, from the portal to 105 and back again. If 105 had expected cunning and lies, he was to be disappointed, because it was plain that the demon was simply searching for the right words. Once, twice he opened his mouth to speak, then choked off the first word out of his mouth and lapsed back into silent thought. Finally he placed the portal carefully beside him and began to speak.

'The man you know as Nick, and the children of the world call Santa Claus, is my oldest companion. I have known him...well, forever – or so it seems to me. Certainly, I can remember no point in my life where he was not also present, nor a time before him. In fact, in many ways it is simplest to say that he _is_ me. Part of me, anyway.

'You've heard it said that without darkness there can be no light? Equally, without evil there can be no good. Goodness requires evil to give it shape, to provide a contrast against which it is visible. I give good old Nick contrast. I am the background against which he exists, the part of the image which is not him, the backdrop which is cropped and discarded, unnoticed until someone takes it away and suddenly nothing has shape any longer.

'But it wasn't always like that ... like this. Once we were close. Closer than friends, closer than lovers, even. Once _we_ were that savage you just watched.'

He held up a hand to stall the several questions which 105 was desperate to ask. 'Let me finish, please, then you may ask as many questions as you wish and I will do my best to answer them truthfully and in full.'

He traced a finger round the rim of the portal. 'This is very difficult for me, Señor. Until this moment, I have never told anyone any of this, for many reasons. For one thing, it's a difficult concept to accept with no evidence and until those dear sweet ladies sent this delightfully utilitarian portal to me I had no way of proving anything I said. For another, there seemed little purpose in telling anyone. Even if I were to be believed, what difference would it make? He would still be Santa Claus, I would still be the Devil. Plus, when all's said and done, I am known as the Prince of Lies. That does tend to cramp my ability to tell a credible story somewhat.'

He laughed, looking up at 105 and inviting him to join in, but the wrestler said nothing. He remained uncertain about what Pitch was saying, but he could not deny that he was intrigued and was willing to listen a little longer.

Pitch allowed the laugh to die away with a shrug. 'Understand that I meant what I said to be taken quite literally. The sweet, white bearded old duffer and myself; we are one and the same person. Or were once.'

He closed his eyes, as though suddenly tired. But 105 knew he was remembering, recalling some experience from his own dim and distant past, some key moment which he had locked away for a very long time, but which he now needed to hand.

Without opening his eyes, the demon continued. 'I – we –...I was a powerful man amongst the Jisa. That's the name of the people you saw, the Jisa. Worshippers of the jaguar and the cayman; pacifists, a holy people. For a thousand years the Jisa existed here, without a single conflict. No war, no battles, nothing. We didn't even have _weapons_ , Señor. People came from all over Peru to this village to worship and give thanks. Mothers prayed that their sons might become priests and learn the holy mysteries. Men proved their manhood as they walked the dark paths under the temple, with the jaguar roaring in their ears and the cayman waiting to reveal itself.' He sighed, and 105 could hear a long, long time passing in the sound. Against his will he was finding it difficult to dislike this new Pitch. He lowered himself to the ground as the demon went on.

'In any case, I was one of the priests. No, not just one; the highest of all. It was I who administered the juice of the cactus to worshippers and led the luckiest ones into the darkness, I who walked the canals deep underground and tended to the needs of the gods. I was a proud man, and not a particularly good one, but neither was I an especially evil one.'

He looked 105 straight in the eye, and held the look until the wrestler became uncomfortable. His voice was barely louder than a whisper, drowning in grief and loss. 'And then the strangers came in their ships of fire! Loud were the lamentations of our women as the temples burned and priests died in their unholy flame!' He covered his face with his hands. 105 could hear the unmistakable sounds of weeping coming from between his fingers and took a step towards the demon......who opened his hands and shouted 'boo!' into the wrestler's mask.

Pitch's laugh was surprisingly deep and warm. 'Sorry – I simply couldn't resist that. I knew you were just the sort of do-gooder to buy the superstitious peasant routine - even after we fell a couple of thousand years back through time via a chunk of wood and I told you that I used to be the high priest of an ancient Peruvian culture.' 105 growled in annoyance.

'More prosaically, what happened was that aliens arrived. We had no idea what was going on, of course. We never worshipped the Sun or anything of that sort. All our gods were the spirits of animals, not the type of thing very likely to descend from the sky. So when the men of the nearby villages came to me, I was as confused and frightened as they.

'I could tell them nothing useful, especially after our own men began to turn on one another. A villager would be sitting in front of his house, speaking to a neighbor, and then out of nowhere he would pick up a rock from the ground and strike and kill his friend. I had no idea what to do or say, so I disappeared into the darkness beneath the temple – to pray for guidance, I told myself. I walked the banks of the underground canals for days. I think that the largest part of me was simply terrified. I hid behind my jaguar headdress while my world was being destroyed above my head.

'I believe that I lost my mind a little then. All I can say with certainty is that I ripped my robes from my body and, naked, ran deeper and deeper into the underground tunnels. At some point I found myself sitting by a canal, staring into it, watching the water ripple and twist. A face appeared in the disturbed water and it seemed entirely natural. A jaguar face attached to the body of a snake. Come to judge me. I prostrated myself, closed my eyes and waited for the god – what else could it be? – to strike me down for my cowardice. I lay that way for hours, too scared to move, or even blink. Eventually part of me realised that I couldn't lie there forever, but I was still too afraid to risk the wrath of the gods. All this time I had kept a hold of my ceremonial thorn studded whip. Thinking to offer up myself as a sacrifice – which should give you some idea of how far from sanity I had wandered; human sacrifice is anathema to us – I began to whip my bare flesh, eyes still tight shut. I could feel my blood flowing down my back, along my arms, on the back of my legs; everywhere I could reach. I suspect I would have bled to death had it not been for a sound I heard, there in the deep tunnels where nothing lived.

'It was the softest of sounds, such as a woman might make brushing a floor, then another like a poorly rooted plant being pulled from the ground. A _pop_. Then another and another. Something was there in the darkness with me and that scared me even more than the god in the water. I opened my eyes.

'Standing round me, glowing greenly in the dark, were a dozen children. Yes, Señor, the ones you saw appear at the village. Where they came from and who brought them to me, I can't say even now, because I don't know. But they were clearly intended to be put to some use. I ran straight out of the temple, right past the statue of the cayman and the jaguar, not stopping until I was back at the entrance to the underground sections. And the whole time I ran, the green children ran with me. Somehow I knew they intended me no harm.

'When I emerged from the temple, the heat of the midday sun was beating down on the main square. Everything was blurred and painfully white to my eyes. I fear I stumbled forward into the center of the clearing, alternately groaning and shouting. Of course my people recoiled from me. My hair and beard had turned white while I was underground. I was naked and coated in blood and twelve spirits followed in my wake. The villagers were terrified; surely they thought this was a new weapon of the invaders.'

'One man dared approach me. I could just about make his face out as my eyes became used to the light once more. My little green followers snapped and snarled at him, but still he came forward, with his arms reaching towards me and his palms open. He was a brave man, that one. When he was a matter of feet from me, he stopped and said my name. How he had recognised me under the blood and filth which covered me I do not know, but as he said my name sanity returned to me and I was able to speak to him, to all the villagers gathered round. I knew that the gods had given me the green men as a weapon to fight the invaders and I knew – as though I had always known, though I was also paradoxically aware that I had never known it until that moment - that some of the invaders had hidden themselves in the bodies of my own people.

'The instant I had this thought, the green men left my side and, as one creature, ran into the crowd. One man, someone I had known all my life, tried to run but the green men - my little devils – surrounded him. They threw themselves at him. They clambered all over him, like mountain goats, and everywhere they went they bit into him. He fell to the dirt and was covered in a cloud of dust so that we could see nothing except one exposed foot, twitching and kicking. And then it was over. All that remained of the man was a mess of bones and my little devils were gone.'

He fell silent. 105 could see in his face how painful he found all these memories, and wondered again what exactly had happened to turn the vicious, feral devil of the Pole into a man he was beginning to trust and, unbelievably, like. 'So you started to fight back?' he asked, keen to nudge Pitch's mind onto more positive times.

'I would love to say so,' the red man replied. 'But in fact it took me some time to figure out that the little devils only came when summoned by blood. Even then, they could only kill one alien at a time – and each time they did, we too lost a man. You saw how it was. One of the Jisa would be suspected of infection. He – or she – would be brought to me and I would strike them until they bled. When the devils came, they would know the truth. If infected, that villager would die. If not, they would disappear into the night, and another infected villager would die instead. Either way, they would not rest until they had killed. But it wasn't enough and hurt us at least as much as it hurt the invaders.'

'Did you not also attack these alien invaders yourselves?' Señor 105 interrupted.

Pitch shook his head. 'I told you. We were a peaceful, pacifist people, without even the propensity for violence or aggression. We tried, but even when the invaders attacked one of our villages in force, we were defeated. Hard enough to fight when centuries of peace have removed the desire to kill from your psyche, worse still to fight and kill men and women who you have known all of your life.'

'So what did you do? I have studied ancient cultures all of my life, but I have never heard of the Jisa. Were you eventually completely overcome? More importantly, what became of you and Nick?' 105 had found Pitch's tale fascinating, but he was also keenly aware that he was supposed to be rescuing his old friend, not listening to folk tales from the 'man' who had stolen him away. 'Just where is Nick?' he asked, as angry at himself as Pitch. 'Why did you take him?'

Pitch sensed the shift in 105's mood. The change he had felt come over him when he followed the masked wrestler through the portal was something he was still trying to come to terms with, but he couldn't deny that it felt good to once again be thinking and not just reacting. Already he could barely recall how it felt to be a beast. If he concentrated he could recall events from his recent past, but motivations, desires? Those were gone, like mist in the morning.

He remembered surprising Nick at the Pole, for instance. He had swept into the workshop like a flash fire, destroying everything in his path as he ferreted out his target. He had found him in the rear grotto, standing unafraid in the open, pushing little elves behind him and daring Pitch with his eyes to harm them. _Double dare you, fat man._

'What happened to us?' he said finally, not catching 105's eye. 'We...became divorced from one another.' He laughed, but where that laugh had earlier been suffused with warmth, now it was brittle and cold. 'We were losing, it was as straight-forward as that. We taught ourselves to fight, but could not teach ourselves to kill enemies who looked like our brothers, our sisters, our mothers. My little devils did what they could but it was never enough. They killed without compassion, true, but for every infected man they killed, two more took his place. Unless we could steal ourselves to slaughter our own, we were doomed.

'I returned to the spot where I had been given the devils and prayed for guidance – for further help, if truth be told. I flagellated myself until the dirt beneath me was a brownish-red paste, but no god spoke to me. Finally, I passed out with the pain. And lying there unconscious, I had a dream.

'The snake with the head of a jaguar spoke to me in my dream. It said to me that I was doomed. It said that I must die if my people were to survive, that I must be ripped in two as a sacrifice. I protested. I have done all that I can, I said to the snake. I brought the little devils from the darkness into the light and set them on the invaders. I taught the men of the villages to fight. I shed the blood of Jisa I have known my entire life. What more, I said, do you want of me? How will my death help anyone?

'The snake just licked its jaguar tongue over its lips and slid closer to me. I could feel its hot breath on my face, and its scales rubbing against my skin. You will not be dead forever, it said. Only while it is necessary.

'Necessary? I said in my dream and the word broke down into shapes in the air which were swallowed by the snake. Part of you is needed, it said. A sacrifice is needed. And as it spoke, its words too crumbled into pieces in the air and this time I swallowed them and understood their meaning.'

105 had been frozen to the spot while Pitch talked but now, as the demon picked up the portal again, he came to himself once more. There were times he wondered whether Pitch could be hypnotising him. He leaned forward and placed a warning hand on Pitch's arm. He could not allow himself to take the red man at face value. 'Understood what meaning?' he asked.

Pitch frowned at the wrestler. 'What I needed to do to save my people, of course. But what is it they say? Show don't tell.' He ran a long finger over the edge of the portal and began to whisper just beneath his breath.

'What are you doing with that?' 105 asked, endeavouring to keep the suspicion in his voice to a minimum. If he were to find out what happened to Nick, he needed to keep Pitch on his side.

Pitch had no time to reply, even if he wished to. Before he could say a word, the portal coloured and blurred. He grabbed hold of 105's sleeve and stepped through, pulling the dumbfounded wrestler behind him.

Everything became confused and 105 felt consciousness slip away from him again. His last thought, before blackness set in, was to wonder why he felt he could trust the Devil himself...

Nothing had changed when he woke to find himself propped up against a tree, with Pitch holding a cup out to him. The liquid it contained tasted of hazelnuts and wasn't unpleasant. He drank it down in a single draft, then handed the cup back. 'Where are we now?' he asked.

Pitch said nothing, but pointed to an out-cropping of rock which topped a nearby rise in the ground. They were in a long, oval hollow 105 realised as he stood and moved up the gentle slope. At Pitch's insistent whisper he dropped to his stomach before cresting the incline, feeling his companion do the same. They shuffled forward the final few feet and peered over the rim of the hill.

The same village 105 had observed earlier lay exposed like roadkill before them. Huts were no more than blackened sticks leaning at angles to the ground. Fires burned here and there, their fuel nearly exhausted. The corpse of a dog half lay on a dirty blanket. The large building from which Nick had previously emerged still stood, in part at least, but the roof was gone and one wall had slid to the ground. 105 made to stand up, but Pitch held him down with one powerful red hand. 'Wait' he said, quietly.

Two figures appeared from behind the semi-ruined building. One was obviously the Hairy Man, the man who was in some way Nick _and_ Pitch. The other was smaller and younger, dressed in a long, once white robe which trailed in the dust. Both men were filthy and covered in cuts and bruises on every visible part of their bodies. As 105 watched in silence, the young man spat bloodily on the ground. Where the bloody sputum landed a familiar dust cloud began to form, whirling tightly round on itself. Soon, one of the little devils stood before the two men. Stood _expectantly_ , it seemed to 105. 'Watch carefully,' Pitch whispered in his ear, as though 105 might grow bored sometime soon.

Hairy Man knelt down in front of the little devil. He beckoned for the young man to do likewise and then, when the two men were both at the same level as the devil, pulled a knife from within his dirty robes and pressed its tip against his own ribs. The young man placed a hand on top of Hairy Man's and, with a nod, quickly pushed on the hilt. Briefly the blade struggled to pierce Hairy Man's skin but the end result was inevitable. With a sigh audible to the two men hiding on the hilltop, Hairy Man fell to one side as blood pulsed thickly and pooled in the dirt around him. Without conscious thought, 105 began to rise, but for a third time Pitch held his arm and prevented him from action. He shrugged off the red man's hand, but remained where he was, because something new was happening in the village below.

The pool of blood round Hairy Man had rolled along a narrow channel in the dirt and formed a short crimson river and, as 105 turned back, an elongated typhoon effect was playing along the bloody stream's entire length. As the dust cleared, 105 was unsurprised to see the blood was gone. In its place, a pale white snake uncurled itself. The jaguar head on the end of the snake body was, 105 thought, the least surprising thing of all. _I may be becoming too blasé_ , he decided with a wry smile. He turned to pass the thought onto Pitch, but the demon was staring intently at the tableau below him and seemed unaware of 105's presence. As the snake began to speak, Pitch mouthed the strange, foreign words along with it.

105 could make no sense of the speech, which sounded a little like Spanish but was not. However, he could see the results plainly. Down in the village, the young man placed his hands over Hairy Man's wound, from which a pale, white mist flowed. Within a few moments both men were obscured from sight.

When the mist cleared the snake was gone and in place of the two men stood Nick and what was - unmistakably - Pitch. At their feet a dozen or more little devils stood as though awaiting instruction. _No,_ thought 105, _not a dozen._ As he looked at them more closely, he could see that half of the little men weren't devils at all.

They were elves.

'At the most simple level, our relationship boils down to this. For every good thing he does, I must do something equally evil. The eternal balance requires it, though it doesn't actually work both ways. If I do something terrible, he's under no obligation to do something wonderful to even things up. That's why there always seems to be so much more evil than purity in the world. Because there is.'

Pitch and 105 were sitting at the edge of the jungle, sharing a drink in the wet heat. Pitch was explaining the solution that the Jisa had come up with. 'None of us were strong enough to kill our friends when we had to. I said to the people, no, not strong. _Evil_. For we were strong in many things, only not killing. And I said to the people that I would split myself in two, as the cayman with the jaguar face had instructed me. I would tear myself into two parts – one peaceful and good, the other evil and violent. The good half of me would take the uninfected people into the jungle and hide, while the evil part took the little devils and slaughtered those for whom it was too late.'

Pitch's voice had taken on the sing-song rhythm of ritual and 105 again wondered if he'd been hypnotised. In some part towards the back of his mind he knew that he'd been far more passive over the past couple of days than usual, but he couldn't decide if that was down to outside influence or the fact that Pitch was surprisingly good company. Not for the first time he wondered how this intelligent, well-spoken _gentleman_ had ended up as the barely sentient beast who had attacked him at the Pole?

Pitch was still speaking, however, so stored the question away for later.

'And that's how it was. While my other self – Nick, Santa, Father Christmas, he's had plenty of names over the centuries – told the villagers stories in the forest and his elves protected them from danger, I took my little demons and I eviscerated men and women I had known all their lives, crunching their bones and turning their bodies to ash. It was the only way to be sure the infection was destroyed. It meant that we won...'

He tailed off and stared with blank eyes into the night. Just when 105 thought he had fallen asleep, he spoke again. 'Once you have that much blood on your hands, though, it's not possible to wash it all off, even where you can see it. He and I met again – afterwards. It was back at the canal, and we weren't alone. We were told how it had to be, what the price would be for ridding ourselves of the invaders. You've heard of Pandora's Box? This was the same sort of thing. Once you unleash evil in its purest form from within, you can't just shove it back inside, as though it were a sock in a drawer.

'He would continue as Santa, dispensing gifts to the children of the world, keeping a list of the good and the bad – and letting me know about the ones who made neither list. The Truly Awful. I would deal with them, and with any other evil bits and pieces which came up.'

105 was struggling to keep up. 'So you kidnapped Nick in order to revenge yourself after millennia of him playing the hero, while you were always the reviled villain, even though you are really the same person and only split yourself in two to save the world?'

For the first time since they had arrived back in time, Pitch looked as angry as his bestial twentieth century self. He snarled at 105. 'No! Nothing so pathetic! I don't want to hurt him, or avenge some slight which doesn't even exist. I want to join with him again. I want to be a whole person again. ' His eyes were pleading as he turned to 105. 'Is that too much to ask?'

_No,_ 105 thought. _But it may be too much to achieve._ 'How do you intend to do that?' he said aloud.

'It's simple. I take Nick and pass through the portal at the exact same time as him, all while saying certain key phrases which will bind us together. When we pop out the other side, we'll be as though we were never separated.'

'That's all?'

'You expected something more, Señor?'

'Not _more_ necessarily. But yes, I expected something _different_.'

'Different how, if I might ask?'

'Different from _everyone thinks I'm the bad guy, boo hoo_ I suppose. It seems a small thing to worry about in the grand scheme of things, especially considering all the terrible things you have done over the last two thousand years. I suppose I don't expect the Prince of Lies to care about marketing and PR, when it boils down to it.'

Pitch sat, saying nothing. 105 feared to break the silence. He felt that he was on the verge of discovering something closer to the truth regarding Pitch's true motivations.

Finally, the demon spoke though he never looked directly at 105 and the wrestler was unsure if the words were intended for him or for Pitch himself. 'There's no place for me anymore. Two thousand years of mayhem, destruction, betrayal and greed and now...nothing. You've seen the world, you've seen how the hippies are winning. The 1970s will be the most peaceful, prosperous and pleasant decade the world has ever known. Peace, love and freedom, man. Makes me sick to my stomach.' He lapsed back into silent brooding.

Feeling as though he were doing something wrong, 105 decided to treat Pitch's words as part of an ongoing discussion. 'But even if that is the case – and I hope to my heart that it is – there will still be a need for your...particular skills. Amongst all this goodness, surely the world will need a little bit of badness, just to keep things interesting?'

Pitch snorted. 'Badness? Like stealing cookies from the cookie jar? Not declaring the proceeds of a yard sale to the IRS? Is that what you had in mind? I who convinced a pedestrian Austrian watercolorist that maybe he should go into politics? I should be happy with _pranks_!' He took a deep breath, calming himself. 'And besides, there are ever-increasing practical problems. I told you – I have to do something evil for every good thing he does. Do you know how hard it is to keep up my side of that bargain when everybody's a do-gooder and there are fewer truly awful guys every year? I'm miles behind, you know. I'm still doing evil things to counter-balance good stuff from the fifties.' He shook his head. 'It's just impossible. My time is done.'

105 had no reply. He could hardly re-assure the demon that the world was bound to become more vicious again soon. He tried a different tack. 'Where's Nick?' he asked.

Pitch nodded, seemingly grateful to change the subject. 'No harm in telling you now. He's back at the North Pole, about six foot down that hole I found you trying to get into. You could probably have reached him just by saying his name sufficiently loudly.'

He laid the portal carefully down in the long grass. 'So, shall we go back and get him?' he asked and began to chant under his breath.

In the panic which followed 105's disappearance, Sheila had tried to round up as many of the Defenders as she could.

She'd been shocked to discover that many of them were elderly or infirm, but pleasantly surprised to discover that old age was no impediment to power. Why even now, as they all stood in the middle of a Polar blizzard of ferocious proportions, a dour faced Welshman who had introduced himself as Gwydion was keeping the area round warm and free of snow using only the power of his mind, though he could do nothing about the sound of the wind which blew in a fury outside their bubble of safety. Meanwhile, one of the old ladies was searching the ground for any sign of the missing wrestler and communicating telepathically with her friend who had stayed at home, wheelchairs not being designed for the polar climate.

'Over here!'

Rodrigo was jumping up and down about twenty meters away. He was obviously standing in a dip in the ground, because only the top of his head was visible even when he jumped. Sheila bobbed her string impatiently where it was tied in Cupid's belt as the little man flew towards the boy. She knew she should make allowances for the little man's injuries, and there was no doubting his courage in coming to help in the first place, but she couldn't help wondering how even Señor 105 could have survived in this inhospitable world.

She pushed such worries out of her mind as Cupid reached Rodrigo. He stood above a hole in the ground, miraculously kept free of snow, even though the iron plate which presumably normally covered it had been left open.

More miraculously still, Rodrigo was helping someone climb out of the hole. Sheila caught a brief glimpse of dark red but before she could say anything, Cupid shouted 'Pitch!' and launched one of his arrows through the air. At the same time, she felt rather than saw several of the Defenders behind her tense and prepare their own attacks.

'STOP!'

Rodrigo swatted the little arrow out the way and put himself directly in front of the red-skinned man. 'It's not Pitch!' he shouted, frantically, above the deafening wind. 'It's Santa!'

One hand still held before him in warning, he stepped to the side to allow everyone to see the rotund, bearded figure emerging from the hole. His hat was missing, and his red coat and trousers were dirt stained and torn, but it was unmistakably Nick, the leader of the Defenders. Sheila allowed her string to become slack with relief, then tensed again as there was no sign of Señor 105 emerging behind him.

'Where is 105?'she asked, but Nick just stared at her. As though a switch had been flicked, the wind died away entirely, and everything around them was completely silent and still. Like a well-loved painting, Sheila was aware of every pore on Nick's hands, every spot of dirt on Rodrigo's sweater, every crease and wrinkle in the old man's face. The only sound she could hear was the slightly heavy breathing of someone standing behind her and the soft, yet crisp _crump_ of feet shifting in the packed snow. She stared at Nick, imploring him to have the answer, begging him to be able to help.

Then he pointed over her shoulder and the shooting began.

The North Pole, Back in the Seventies

105 was surprised but pleased to discover that he stayed conscious during his latest passage through the portal. _I must be getting better at this_ , he thought. Instead, he watched Pitch tumble head over heels in the air in front of him. Inside the portal, it felt like floating inside a child's kaleidoscope, as the air was filled with sparkling lights which twisted and folded in on themselves in a series of precise geometric shifts. It was this ever-changing light pattern which at first made him doubt the evidence of his own eyes but after staring at the red figure he was certain; Pitch's suit was becoming more tattered and his skin rougher and more hide-like by the minute. A jolt in whatever it was that made up the interior of the portal spun the demon round, exposing a face twisted in a snarl of hate, seconds before a rip appeared in the near distance, beyond which 105 could make out something huge and white, with smatterings of color breaking up the otherwise pigment-free landscape.

With barely a sound, the two men exited the portal and landed beside one another in a soft, cold snowdrift. Before either could do or say anything, someone started shooting at them.

Later, when everything was done and dusted, a shame-faced Cupid admitted that he'd _lost the plot entirely_ when Pitch had materialised from the air behind him.

'I'm peaceful, man,' he said, picking at the fastener on his diaper and refusing to meet anybody's eye. 'Ask anyone. Cupid's a mellow head, they'll say. Never hurt a fly, they'll say. Smoother than Moroccan grass and cooler than Fat Freddy's Cat. But, you know, the red guy did a helluva number on me. On me and on the little green dudes. Helluva number. So I freaked out, panicked a bit, lost it. Like I said.' His already quiet voice became even softer, until it was a barely audible mumble. 'Probably shouldn't have shot the cat, though. That was definitely _not_ cool.'

Everyone had agreed that no real damage had been done, which obviously made Cupid feel a little better. In retrospect most of the Defenders had been much more surprised when Pitch, bleeding from the flesh wound in his leg made by Cupid's bullet, stood up and Santa - showing a surprising turn of speed for an over-weight, elderly man who had just spent three days down a hole – jogged over to him and punched him full in the face, knocking him out cold.

'Well, damn.' Cupid hastily shoved his pistol inside his diapers and swung over to the unmoving figure of Pitch, stretched out in the rapidly melting slush like the world's least well thought out snow angel. 'You got some right hook, Nick my man.' He shook his head in appreciation.

Nick, meanwhile, exhibited no signs of remorse. The look on his face clearly said _he had that coming_ and nobody was particularly inclined to disagree.

Nobody except, perhaps, Señor 105, who stood over the demon with a puzzled look on his face. He squatted down and ran his palm carefully over Pitch's rough skin, then rubbed the tattered jacket he wore between two fingers. 'We need to wake him up,' he announced finally, looking up and catching the eye of each person standing in a rough semi-circle round him.

'Easily done, my Lord,' said the Welsh wizard, Gwydion, already making shapes in the air with his hands.

'Hold his arms and legs,' 105 hurriedly ordered those nearest him and moved out of the way so that his instructions could be carried out. Only when the demon was securely held did he nod to the wizard who, with a final flourish, brought his hands firmly together.

Pitch woke up and immediately strained against those who held him down.

105 leaned forward so that he could be seen clearly. 'Stay still or you'll end up hurting yourself,' he said. 'I need to speak to some of these people, then we may be in a position to do something about that matter which we discussed earlier.'

He spoke as much for the benefit of the listening Defenders as for Pitch. The thing he was about to suggest was likely to prove a hard-sell to this particular audience.

It took about an hour to set up, but finally Mother Night was satisfied. The four sides of the portal were lying separately on a section of the ground which Gwydion had cleared of snow. Each piece was precisely six feet distant at its closest point to any other piece, with markings on the hard dirt connecting the whole to create a large enclosed square. Pitch, securely tied, lay in the exact center of the square, twisting his head this way and that, snarling and snapping at everyone who came within his eyeline.

'You're sure this will work?' 105 had asked the same question a dozen times during the past hour and each time Night had said _Maybe_ and left it at that. In theory she knew that splitting the portal up then connecting it again as she had should send it into what she had decided to call a physically static time loop; anything caught inside would regress back in time without actually going anywhere. 105 had said that Pitch was a different being in the past; intelligent, polite, thoughtful. Urbane even, he said. Something to do with spending so much time as concentrated evil. It was bound to affect him, according to 105. Night wasn't sure she understood but Courage said it made sense and that was good enough, so far as she was concerned.

She glanced expectantly at 105. He nodded and she murmured the incantation. Inside the portal, the hard ground became softer as the underlying ice withdrew. Grass blossomed, and a small bush briefly flicked in and out of existence as time rolled backwards. The change in Pitch was almost as extreme. His suit swiftly cleaned itself, becoming fitting, as his body too thinned out and his skin became smooth and less brightly red.

'Now!' 105 said.

Night said another phrase and the portal abruptly stopped functioning.

'Well I must say that feels much better!' Pitch sat up and stretched. 'Many thanks, my dear,' he said to Night, who harrumphed and concentrated on packing away her equipment.

The demon cast about for 105 and, finding him, raised a quizzical eyebrow. 'So, is this your solution then? Make me a nicer, but still essentially pointless, devil?' He shook his head. 'I wish I still had my little demons, you know. Lost them in the middle ages, unfortunately. At least if I had them with me I could go out in a blaze of glory. Attack this shower of sanctimonious goody two shoes, for a start. But I don't even have my damn dog now.' Suddenly angry, he stood up and glared accusingly at the wrestler. 'You should have killed me! _This_ solves nothing; it simply assuages your pearly white consciences. There is still no place for me in this time, no purpose to my existence. I will suffocate under the sheer weight of good deeds the seventies will see.'

_Time for phase two._ 105 allowed the thought to radiate out in the direction of Mother Courage, safely ensconced in her London flat. There was nothing else he could do for now. She was the only one who could move objects through time and space. He only hoped that the owner of the particular object he had in mind was in a _really_ good mood.

'Well? Have you nothing to say, Señor?'

Pitch stamped his feet in childish temper and pressed a palm against the air above one of the sections of the portal, but the forcefield they had erected held firm. 105 doubted it would do so for long if Pitch genuinely decided that he wished to escape, so the strange wailing sound which filled the air just then was especially welcome.

They all turned in the direction of the sound, in time to witness a large red rectangular shape materialise from the fresh air and crash into the snow. Unlike travel through the portal, there was no obvious explanation for this sudden appearance, nor for the cultured voice which shouted 'This doesn't look much like Monte Carlo to me, you insane old baggage' shortly before the whatever it was shot behind a nearby mini mountain of ice and was lost to view. Seconds later the sound of metal striking frozen water could be heard quite clearly, followed by cursing in several different languages. 105 grabbed Pitch by the arm and hurried in the direction of the swearing.

When Night had explained what 105 intended to do, the others agreed that they could be in for a long wait, and so were all the more surprised when the wrestler and the demon returned within five minutes. As they rounded the corner of the glacier, the same wailing sound which had preceded the earlier apparition could be heard in the distance. A final, querulous 'what the bloody hell was all that about then?' floated towards them on the polar winds and then was gone, leaving only the soft tramp of the two men to disturb the now still northern air.

'Very well,' Pitch was saying to 105 as they reached the camp. 'It looks like the 1970s won't be quite the lovefest I envisaged. There's some juicy stuff in the first half, but what I'm really looking forward to is this punk thing. That looks like it's going to be a lot of fun. But that still leaves the question of my becoming an animal again in a decade or two. I'd rather rejoin that fat old duffer now' – he nodded in the direction of Nick, who glowered back at him \- 'than spend the rest of my days getting more and more bestial. And you say that he's not willing to be rejoined anyway.'

'No. No. No.' said Nick, crossing his arms in front of himself. 'I serve a valuable purpose and I am most definitely not jeopardising that purpose by letting some self-pitying demon jump on-board as though I were some sort of taxicab!'

105 had feared this would be a stumbling block. He had no intention of forcing Nick to merge with Pitch, even if he could. But unleashing an increasingly vicious and animalistic Pitch back into the world wasn't an option either. Perhaps the demon could come to live with him, where he could be watched over and helped as his condition worsened? He looked round for Sheila and Rodrigo – they would need to be consulted, after all.

I think I have a solution.

The voice in his head echoed as though more than one person was speaking. The two Mothers had been together for so long that they often finished one another's sentences or, as in this case, shared one between them. 'Please tell us then,' he said aloud, looking directly at Mother Night.

_The portal,_ said one of the voices. _We retrieved it from rather an unpleasant man at the beginning of the century and in doing so prevented him from bringing some fairly nasty demons into this world. But we were unable to do anything about the innocent human agent he used as a conduit to the other realms. She was – is – as pure as Snow White and has remained in a deathly trance from that day to this from which she will never be awoken. No handsome prince has ever come for her, nor ever will – but perhaps a slightly less conventional Prince might, if not awaken her, at least become one with her, setting her free? Combine her essence with Pitch instead of our old friend Nick's? She would not be aware of anything, but that is probably for the best..._

105 was unsure which of the ladies had spoken, but it didn't matter. He felt sure that this was a solution which would be satisfactory to everyone. He took Pitch to one side and explained. The grin which split the demon's face was enough to tell everyone in the camp that, whatever 105 had suggested, it would – as Cupid put it - do the trick.

The two men came back to their friends. Pitch and Nick put their heads together and were soon laughing and crying, remembering worlds now long gone. Mother Night was deep in mental conversation with Mother Courage, an unconscious smile lighting up her face. Gwydion and some of the others had started a fire in the center of the clearing and, from nowhere, the Welshman had caused an entire pig on a spit to appear, filling the hollow with delicious smells and heat. 105 took Sheila's string from Cupid and murmured 'we should invite everyone to ours for a Christmas celebration next year.' Sheila bobbed her agreement with delight.

Rodrigo started suddenly. 'I just realised, Señor! Santa. Satan. How come nobody has ever noticed that before!'

Pitch laughed. 'Pure co-incidence, my small friend,' he said. 'So much is, I find. Come on – let's get some of that pork before it's all gone!' He put one arm round the boy and the other round Nick and walked down to the fire.

'Merry Christmas, everyone' he said.
