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 ag
ainst 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
Senor 105 and the Secret Santa Page 8
