Gregory Picklebottom's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

Gregory Picklebottom hugged his briefcase to his chest and waited for the moon. Inside sat the pale blue seed the garden god had given him. Swallow it under a full moon, and he would begin to turn into a cucumber. But a pigeon had been watching him for an hour. It sat on a broken bone arch above him, one orange eye locked on the briefcase. Gregory knew that stare. This bird was an IRS agent, and it wanted his seed. "You cannot audit me tonight," Gregory whispered. "That seed is not income. It is destiny." The pigeon shuffled closer. Gregory backed up the temple steps, past pillars made of old bones. His Crocs slapped the stone. The moon climbed higher. He had maybe ten minutes before it went full, and the agent was closing in. A girl leaned in the temple doorway. She wore a patchwork coat of a dozen colors. She tossed keys into the air, one after another, catching them without looking. Gregory had met her once outside the crooked manor, where she guarded doors that never opened twice. She grinned at him. "That bird's got you spooked," she said, flipping a brass key over her knuckles. "Want a trade? A key for a favor?" "I need it gone," Gregory said. "It works for the tax men." The girl laughed. "Everything works for someone." She pointed a key toward the deep water beyond the temple. "There's a fellow down there who eats birds. Shark on top, octopus below. Ring the old bell and he'll come." Gregory did not love this plan. But the moon was nearly full, and the pigeon had hopped to the step above him. He grabbed the rusty bell hanging in the doorway and swung it hard with his rubber chicken hand. The clang rolled across the water. The surface split. A huge shape rose, gray and finned, with tentacles trailing behind like propellers. The Sharkmancer studied the temple with one bright eye. The pigeon froze. Then the tentacles snapped forward, faster than sight. They wrapped the bird and yanked it into the dark water. Feathers drifted down. The agent was gone. Gregory sagged against a pillar, breathing hard. "Thank you," he told the girl. But she had already stepped back into the temple. As she went, she pressed a key into his rubber chicken hand. "You'll owe me that favor," she called. "I always collect." The moon slid full and white above the bone temple. Gregory opened his briefcase. The wet sock was there. The seed was there, glowing. He lifted it toward his mouth, ready at last. Then his googly eye rolled to the key in his hand. It was warm now, almost hot. Deep in the temple, behind a locked door, something began to hum. The seed could wait one more moment. Whatever the girl had handed him, it was awake, and it wanted him to come inside.