Chapter Eight
Gothic Works. GW. The two initials on the scrap of paper Seth Lockhart had given the Quagmires had now meaning. Their meaning was “an organization bent on the elimination of every remaining volunteer”. They also meant “a group of assassins”, and they also stood for “people you should never not avoid to encounter”. Those and many more meanings were just a few of the many meanings behind GW, or
Gothic Works. But there was one meaning that remained obscure to the Quagmire triplets. The meaning of their anchor symbol.
‘I do not know exactly what the anchor symbollizes, though the anchor generally represents hope and steadfastness.’ Professor Rowan told them as they sat on the steps of the harbor. The professor stood on the quay, admiring the scenery. ‘Hope? With all these spikes? I don’t think so.’ Duncan shrugged. ‘It could mean that they hope to kill every last one of the volunteers.’ Isadora suggested. ‘Or how they remained steadfast through their defeat.’ Quigley added in his two cents, an expression which here means ‘also suggested’. Professor Rowan shook his head.
‘No, no. You have it all mixed up.’ He said. ‘Gothic Works is not exclusively formed by former unknown agents or volunteers-turned-villains, I believe. Some of them are newly-recruited from all over the world, legendary killers all.’ The professor looked very grim outside, his paleness enhanced by the gloomy weather above. That and the information he was giving the Quagmires. ‘What, even Rose?’ Quigley was darkly surprised. Rose had seemed sweet and innocent enough, but she
was in Gothic Works. ‘I can safely assumed they wouldn’t have let her join if she hadn’t proven herself by killing a volunteer. From what I gather, that’s the joining procedure.’
‘That’s awful.’ Isadora shivered, and Duncan put his arm around her. It was a tad chilly down there by the Crooked Creek. The mist had thickened; it seemed as if a sollid wall of grey encased the surrounding environs, and the Quagmires felt trapped, even knowing that they would soon be leaving. ‘I assume a warning is not needed. You youngsters sure seem able to take care of yourselves.’
The Quagmires had proved to be more than able to care for themselves. Others, however…They still had not forgotten about Tiana and Caroline, who thankfully had not been captured by the monstrous Crowe brothers, but had disappeared anyway. And also Catherine Hudson, whom they’d almost succeeded in rescuing, until she stepped on a bear trap hidden in the farm. René Chenier, whose crime was terrible, but whose death was full of suffering, and poor Robin Crowe, who never had a chance.
‘I understand you’ll be leaving tonight. Is that correct?’ Professor Rowan asked. ‘Yes. There is just one more thing we need to do…’ Quigley began, but he was interrupted, as Natalie Finch appeared, running down the cobblestone steps quickly – how she managed not to trip and tumble with those high heels the Quagmires never knew – and when she finally arrived at the bottom, her face was flushed and she was gasping for air.
‘Natalie, you look positively aghast. Is something the matter?’ Professor Rowan asked. Natalie laid her hand on his shoulder for support, gasping and huffing and puffing. ‘The…landlord…dead…She…said…the chill…took him…’ Natalie spoke in between huffs and puffs and gasps.
‘Oh, we must go to the building then! Pay our respects. Old Mr. Cronenberg was a gentle, kindly man. His wife will not be such, I’m afraid.’
The climb back up was much more foreboding than the last of course. As they climbed, Natalie said that the landlord had been ill for some time now. But a cold draft entered his room and the man had finally succumbed. The widow was making the funeral arrangements, and Tony had to stay down in the main hall taking the tenants and guest’s respects. The Quagmires had nothing black to wear, but their clothes were dark enough, save for Isadora’s grey coat, which she traded for one of Natalie’s, a dark coat trimmed with black feathers. When asked where she’d gotten it, Natalie looked astonished before saying, in a very low voice, that Esmé Squalor had given it to her. ‘Well. Doesn’t matter. It’s adequate for a funeral, at least.’ Isadora said. Natalie seemed trancquilized. Out in the main hall, every tenant and guest had gathered to pay their respects to Tony Cronenberg, who sat in a strong-looking chair in the center of the hall.
The six members of Gothic Works were there also, and what was most striking about them was not only their varied ages and appearances, but their clothes; they were remarkably similar to one another, almost as if they were wearing uniforms. Embroidered with exquisite detail on their chest areas were numbers. The women had roman algarisms embroidered on their clothes, while the men displayed arabic numbers. Their clothes were generally black and white, but each had a tint, or a hue of color, very faint in that dim lighting. It all seemed peculiar to the Quagmires. When Rose Hawthorne saw Quigley, she smiled. She detached herself from the others and came over to the Quagmires’ side.
‘Quite sad isn’t it?’ She asked Quigley. Her perfume made it hard for him to concentrate. ‘All because of a cold draft. Someone didn’t shut the window upstairs. And now he’s dead.’ Rose’s vivid green eyes examined Quigley’s. He looked away, unable to sustain her glare. Now that he knew what she was, Quigley was not about to become friends with her. That being said, there was a lot more to Rose that none of them knew yet. ‘What is it? Do I make you nervous? I beg your pardon. You see…’ And then she approached Quigley very slowly, and whispered in his ear ‘I find you quite interesting. If you know what I mean.’
‘I don’t think I know what you mean.’ Quigley tried to avoid her, but Rose never gave up. ‘Aw, come on. Don’t be shy. I just want to talk to you. Privately. There’s a lovely space up in the roof, like a balcony. Meet me there.’ Rose whirled, leaving her perfume behind her, lingering in the air. Quigley felt dizzy, and he was not sure if it was because of the perfume. ‘What’s the matter, brother? Are you constipated?’ Duncan had not failed to notice Rose’s approach, but seeing Quigley’s expression, he had to joke. ‘Terrible time for jokes and to get hit on, you two.’ Isadora reprehended them. ‘The landlord is dead, show some respect.’ Quigley and Duncan became silent, speaking again only when it was their turn to pay condolences to Tony Cronenberg, recently orphaned.
‘Thank you.’ Tony said in his ever-politeful tone. After everyone had showed him their condolences, even the two innapropriately dressed spinsters, the little girl and Seth Lockhart and other tenants whose appearance was unremarkable at best, Tony Cronenberg stood up. It was plain he towered over everyone. ‘Thank you all for your kind words and condolences. My father thought of you all as his family, not just tenants and guests. Mother is making funeral arrangements, and later we shall reconvene in the common area of the second floor for the service. I must now retire for some time, if you’ll excuse me. Thank you.’ Tony left the hall, climbing the stairs, leaving all the tenants behind. Immediately after he left, the tenants lagged behind, whispering and gossiping about their landlord’s passing, as people often do in these occasions.
‘He seemed very sad.’ Isadora commented. Tony was one bear of a man and upon first meeting him the Quagmires had half-expected him to be a monster, but it was only because they had just been around men who were as large, but who used their size to hurt others, but he was actually very much the opposite. He was fearful, but not feared. A curious combination.
‘What do you two think?’ Quigley asked. ‘Rose wants to talk to me. Should I go? She wouldn’t try to kill me, right?’ Quigley still did not want to believe that seemingly sweet, pretty girl was a cold killer, but he had little reason to think otherwise. ‘Perhaps we can go too, and hide. If she tries anything, well…We have our
resources.’ Duncan told him. The Quagmires’ guns had thankfully remained unused so far, despite their seriously considering using them on the Crowes.
‘But what’s more, what could she possibly want with you anyway? I’m the good looking one.’ Duncan joked, and Quigley punched him in the shoulder, and Isadora shoved the two up the stairs. ‘Let’s go and see what she wants. And stop bickering like that, it’ll only attract attention!’ She scolded them, and the three Quagmires headed to the top balcony where Rose Hawthorne awaited them, unaware of the five pairs of watchful eyes beneath, in the main hall.
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Chapter Nine
The Cronenberg Colossus Apartment was an unusual building. Unusual not just in the way that it was built and arranged, but in how it looked from the outside. A towering mass of house bits, as if a child had been asked to design it as opposed to a legit architect or engineer. Atop the tower, there was a roof of green tiles, metal spikes and a metal rooster that pointed north. A lightningrod was also visible as well as several metal chimneys that let out smoke night and day and even a cable tv signal receptor. There was a balcony up there, with a canopy protecting the balcony from the weather, and a nice set of vintage chairs and table to sit at and admire the scenery, and the columns supporting the canopy were decorated in lovely art-nouveau motifs. It was lovely up there, despite the dismal weather conditions and the terrible cold, as well as the frightening, sheer height of the place. From up there one could see the large artificial lake of Deluge Dam, which had flooded a native reserve when the dam was built. One could also see the distant chimneys of the town of Deluge Dam, built right where the dam was, in the very spot called the Ghastly Gorge. Down below, the Crooked Creek flowed, silvery, barely distinguishable through the mist, the woods around it quiet and gloomy. Yes, there was plenty to see up there at the top of Cronenberg Colossus Apartments, but when Quigley Quagmire stepped out into the balcony, it was Rose Hawthorne he saw. Her fluffy, wavy, luscious brown hair fluttered in the wind, as she leaned against the parapet – a word which here means ‘a short elaborate wall which separates anyone who would dare approach it from a terrible fall’ – and she was trying to scratch the back of her left heg with her shoe through her sock.
‘Hello.’ Quigley said. Rose stood upright and stopped scratching her leg with her shoe. She turned around, and those mysterious green eyes came into direct contact with Quigley’s. ‘Hello yourself. Thank you for coming. For a few minutes I thought you’d leave a lady out here to freeze by herself.’ Quigley noticed Rose’s bare shoulders and blushed. ‘Oh, sorry.’ He offered her his jacket.
‘Thank you. How chivalrous of you.
Elm.’ She said with a devilish smile. ‘I heard you are leaving tonight.’
‘Did you?’ Quigley asked. ‘From whom?’
‘Does it matter? Anyways, it’s good that you’re leaving. I mean, a man just died here. He might haunt you in your sleep.’ Rose joked. ‘I doubt Mr. Cronenberg will return from the afterlife to haunt a perfect stranger.’ Was Quigley’s response, disgruntled as he was. ‘Have I offended you? I apologize. I just can’t seem to ever stop joking.’ Rose smiled. A breeze came from behind her, and with it, her perfume.
Roses.
‘What exactly are you doing here anyway? You and your…friends.’ Quigley was no fool. He knew exactly what the group had come to do. But asking didn’t hurt. ‘I could tell you, but where’s the fun in that? I’ll have you guess.’ Quigley was in no guessing mood. ‘Sorry. I am in no guessing mood.’ He told her. Rose laughed. ‘And they say
we are humorless.’ Rose approached him, not once looking anywhere but into Quigley’s eyes. ‘Do I…disturb you?’
‘Actually, you do.’ Quigley replied. Rose smiled. ‘I like you. You’re honest, yet you lie. Your name…is not actually
Elm is it?’ She asked. Quigley was ready for that one. ‘And who says your name is really Rose?’ Another laugh. ‘Well, I do
smell like one, for starters. Secondly, beneath my lovely petals, I have sharp thorns.’ That much Quigley knew. ‘Clearly. Is one of your thorns meant for me?’ He asked. Rose stopped smiling. ‘It all depends. Would you stand in my way?’
That question was dangerous, Quigley knew, and Isadora and Duncan, hidden inside, knew as well, as did the fourth listener of that conversation. ‘What will you have from me, Quigley Quagmire. A petal…or a thorn?’ Rose put her arms around Quigley, closing her hands behind his neck, her deep green eyes staring right into his. After a moment that seemed frozen in time, Quigley mustered up the energy for an answer. ‘Neither.’ Rose withdrew her arms slowly, never once breaking eye contact. ‘How do you know my name? I believe I have the right to ask.’ If she knew his name, what’s to say the others did not know as well? The Quagmires were never officially volunteers, but it would not do to enter a confrontation with
Gothic Works. Not until they discovered who was behind that organization.
‘I’m the only one who knows your real name.’ Rose said. She looked away into the distance. ‘Who told you?’ He asked. ‘Does it matter? You only need to know this about me, Quigley. I have goals and motivations of my own. You would never understand them, as you’ll never understand me.’ Rose looked at him once again. All the playfulness and flirtation had faded like perfume eventually fades from skin. ‘Then why are you dancing this little dance? What do you want from me?’ Quigley asked. ‘I want to know if you’d do something stupid like stand in the way of people you cannot hope to defeat. Because, you see, if you do…If I have to prove myself again…I will. I’ll keep proving myself until my goal has been met. Nothing and no one will stop me. I’ve asked you to come up here with me to warn you. Do not stand in my way. Do not stand in their way. You will lose. Get out of while you still can, and hope to God you never run into one of us again.’ Then Rose did something Quigley did
not expect. She rushed in and kissed him right on the lips. It was a quick kiss, and then Rose was on the parapet. It was only before she jumped that Quigley noticed she had some sort of grappling hook attached to the roof of the canopy. That grappling hook had a very long extension of a strange cord, and the cord whirled as Rose fell down into the mist.