Gargoyle Hunt: Secret Supers, #3

GARGOYLE HUNT

Secret Supers, Book 3

by

Aurora Springer

Danger is the last thing on Estelle’s mind when she visits the University of Oxenford for a summer course. But, mysterious thefts from the archives and shadowy figures on the ancient walls propel her into action. With Toby five thousand miles away, Estelle and her winged horse must hunt for the culprits alone. Soon they are embroiled in a mixed bag of aliens and ancient magic. Toby’s unexpected arrival throws her into turmoil and spurs events into a climax. Under pressure from his family to succeed, Toby is trapped in a web of deceit. The two supers must catch the crooks in less than a week to salvage his reputation.  

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidence.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Copyright © 2016 Aurora Springer

All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Danielle Fine

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 1

BRAKES SQUEALING, THE bus lurched to a halt by the high iron gates of St. Swithin’s College. Shouldering her heavy pack, Estelle Wright picked her way down the aisle to the exit. Her best friend, Diane Stewart, was right behind her as they joined the other passengers hurrying onto the street. Estelle jumped down the steps and stared at the sand-colored stone walls of St. Swithin’s. Cast iron gates, twenty-foot high, blocked the front of the arched entrance. The walls of the medieval edifice loomed still higher, with moss and stonecrop growing in the cracks between the gray stones.

Diane gushed, Wow! I’m so thrilled to be in Oxenford. Look at that super-sized stone archway. Flinging back her long auburn hair, she rotated slowly on her toes to scan the old buildings along either side of the narrow cobbled street. She pointed to the building with heavy wooden doors on the opposite side. That’s the Bodleian Library. See the ugly stone faces on the tower, the grotesques? They’re really meant to be decorative rainspouts. Since her five weeks of travel in Europe last year, Diane had become a self-proclaimed expert on medieval architecture.

Estelle gazed at the Library. Stone gargoyles protruded from the corners of the square tower. Caricatures of men and beasts with leering mouths and lolling tongues, their hollow eyes stared straight at her. Ice shivering down her spine, Estelle froze in horror. The gargoyles were watching. Had they penetrated her secret identity? A second later, billowy clouds scudded across the sun and the uncanny illusion dimmed. Exhaling in relief, she said, Yeah, it’s totally cool. We don’t have anything that ancient in Atalanta.

They had arrived for a Study Abroad program in the University of Oxenford, a notable center of academia for more than a millennium. On a whim, Estelle and Diane had applied to take a six-week summer course at the University. After they had been accepted, Estelle had scrambled for money to pay for the trip. She had spent her weekends serving greasy fries and chicken wings until she was sick of the smell. Her parents had dug into their savings to pay for the airfare. In the end, she had money to spare for an extra week touring in Europe. Diane was luckier. Her parents were wealthy and delighted in showering gifts on their only daughter.

A car horn honked behind the parked bus, which blocked the narrow street. The car was doomed to wait. The bus driver raised the lid of the luggage compartment and pulled out bags in a leisurely manner. The passengers milled around the driver, scrambling to claim their baggage.

Traveling light, Diane and Estelle carried their belongings in their back packs. Diane’s computer case gave her a professional air, while Estelle clutched a zippered tote. Diane towed her away from the passengers jostling over the suitcases. They gazed up and down the quaintly named Catte Street at the high stone walls of the college buildings. Beyond the main Bodleian Library, Estelle recognized the lead-covered cupola of the Radcliffe Camera. Familiar highlights from the tourist brochures.

It’s way better than London, Diane exclaimed. London’s got the museums and the old tower by the Thames, but Oxenford has real character. Can’t you imagine the medieval crowd strolling along this lane? She gestured past the bus to the gothic tower of St. Mary’s Church at the end of the street. Lords and ladies in their gaudy cloaks, poor students wearing shabby gowns, a soldier riding his warhorse and peasants pulling wooden carts of vegetables to the market. Imagine them stepping on the cobblestones of Catte Street five hundred years ago.  

Visualizing the bustling crowds, Estelle joked, Imagine the smell of sweat and horse manure. After spending summers on her uncle’s farm, she knew a lot about livestock. Or worse, she added, glancing from the upper story windows of the colleges to the drainage channel in the center of the street. She brushed a stray hair off her face, noticing the heat after their ride in the air-conditioned coach.  

You’re so unromantic, Diane complained.

I’m only being a realist. With her secret superpower and goal of becoming a veterinarian, Estelle had little time for romantic ideas. She gazed up at the high stone walls on either side of the narrow street. Had Rockette, her winged mare, arrived in the city? The crenellations on the roofs of the towers would give her Farleon companion plenty of cover. Rockette could fly faster than a jet plane for a short distance, but she couldn’t maintain that speed across the whole Atlantic Ocean. They had spent hours poring over maps to ensure the mare would arrive safely at the correct destination, crossing above land whenever feasible.

Wings fluttering, a pigeon with brown speckles on its white feathers landed on a ledge above St. Swithin’s gate. The bird cooed, "What took you so long? I’ve been waiting here for ages." Rockette was the only one in Britain who knew about her secret life as Super Starrella and their fight to save Atalanta from Zarnoth threats.

"Our flight was eight hours, Estelle replied in their telepathic language. Then, we had to wait in lines for immigration control and take the bus to Oxenford. When I get to my dorm room, I’ll let you in through the window."

The porter, a stout man with a perpetual frown on his face, unlatched the small door in the massive iron gates and strode up to the bus driver. In a gruff voice, he warned, The bus can’t park here. Ten minutes only for unloading at the gates. Any longer and you’ll have to go around to the back. 

The driver pushed his peaked cap over his forehead and muttered something indistinct under his breath, probably lurid oaths.

Turning to the passengers, the porter beckoned. Come inside!

Estelle followed her taller friend through the gate. The air was distinctly cooler under the wide stone arch. Beyond the arch, she glimpsed the green lawn of a courtyard, the Front Quad, according to her guidebook. The stone walls of the College continued around four sides of the courtyard, with three stories of windows to the sloping tiled roofs.

The porter directed them to the door in the side of the archway. Inside the small foyer of the Porter’s Lodge, the air was still and stuffy.

I’m Grimthorpe, the Head Porter, he announced. Sign the register and I’ll give you the key to your room. He sat at a desk and checked their names on his computer. After each person signed the form, he handed them a key and a map of the College buildings.

Mr. Patel will show you around, he said, indicating the door into the stone archway. Diane and Estelle pushed through the line of people waiting to enter the lodge and leaned gratefully against the cool stone walls.

It’s hot, Estelle muttered, brushing her hair from her forehead.

Fanning her face with the map, Diane groaned in agreement, Yes, that porter’s room was stifling. I’d forgotten there’s no air conditioning in this country. 

Yeah, and we’ve arrived in the middle of a heat wave, Estelle remarked.

Soon, the other passengers joined them in the shade of the arch. Thirty people in total. Some were tourists, judging by their age and cameras. Others had graying hair and might be retirees. Most were young and probably students like Estelle and Diane. 

A slim young man sauntered into the archway and wiped perspiration from his dark forehead. Hello, ladies and gentlemen, he shouted to gain their attention. He spoke with a perfect British accent, although his dark brown skin implied a foreign ancestry. Once everybody was looking at him, he began his introduction, Welcome to St. Swithin’s College. I’m Julian Patel and I’ll be your guide during your stay. He gestured towards the sunny courtyard. First, we’ll take a short tour of the main College buildings, and then I’ll direct you to your rooms. You can leave your heavy luggage here for the porter to handle.

His audience straggled into the courtyard and waited for further instructions. A couple of tourists pointed their cameras at the ivy covered walls of the old buildings. 

Walking into the middle of the stone path, Julian gestured around the courtyard. The buildings around the Front Quad are the oldest part of the College. They were constructed in the mid fifteenth century to house the fellows and their students. Although the exterior architecture has not been altered, I’m sure you will be pleased to know that the interior rooms were renovated only two years ago. Your rooms are in the east wing, overlooking the Garden Quad and the river. He nodded toward the tourist couples. Some of you have reserved larger en-suite bedrooms. The rest are standard student rooms. There are shared facilities like a small kitchen and showers in the middle of the hallway.

Ooh, Diane whispered to Estelle. The rich guys get their own bathrooms and we have to share. She wrinkled her perfect nose. I don’t care. It’s the same as in the dorms at Goldman University. 

You won’t be in the dorms next semester, Estelle said.

Yeah. Won’t it be great? We’ll have our own rooms in a regular house.  

Thanks to your dad, Estelle remarked. Diane’s parents had bought a house near the university as a rental property.

Diane nodded. Dad thinks it’s a good investment. She nudged Estelle. Come on! We’d better follow our guide.

Julian strolled along the path towards the double doors on the left wing of the building. Everyone trailed behind him like a flock of meek sheep. Pointing his forefinger at the doors, he explained, These doors lead into the main dining hall. You’ll have breakfast, lunch and special evening meals there, except when you are out on a full day trip. He rotated to wave at the doors on the opposite side of the Quad. You can use the Senior Common Room in the north wing during your stay. There are comfortable seats, a billiards table and a big screen TV.

A man in a loud check jacket asked, Where’s the famous fifteenth century chapel?

Julian indicated the central tower at the rear of the Quad. Under the Bell Tower in the north wing. I’ll show you inside the chapel on our tour tomorrow.

Diane edged up to Estelle and whispered, I wish he’d guide us to some food. I’m starving.

Me too. We can explore St. Swithin’s by ourselves, Estelle agreed.

A tall man with beetling brows and a scowl on his face scurried from the main entrance into the Quad. His passage was blocked by their tight cluster of tourists and students. His scowl deepened and he snarled, Out of my way. People stepped aside and he hustled past, muttering, Ignorant plebs.

Stifling a laugh, Estelle glanced at their guide and arched an eyebrow in a question.

He caught her gaze and murmured, Dr. Crabtree is one of our college eccentrics. Don’t let him upset you. His bark is worse than his bite.

After the grumpy professor had stomped into the Senior Common Room, Diane remarked, I hope you don’t have many like him.

Julian shook his head. You’d have to get used to his brash manner if you were a student in his history of science course. He gathered up his flock, calling, Ladies and gentlemen, now you’ve got your bearings from the Front Quad, I’ll show you to the dining hall. Please follow me. He led the way through big double doors into a large room with a vaulted ceiling.

Gazing at the heavy beams crossing the ceiling overhead, Estelle was impressed with the spacious interior. Five long tables extended the width of the dining hall. On the opposite wall, the high table was raised on a dais so the fellows could stare down at the assembled students. The college arms of the white hart and two eagles hung on the wall above the high table.

Julian waved his hand towards the serving counter by the wall. Please queue up for the food. This evening, we have a buffet dinner instead of the formal meal service.

Oh good, Diane cried. I’m ravenous.  

Everyone trooped after their guide to claim their food.

After queuing up to fill their plates, Diane and Estelle found places near the middle of a table. Walking to their table, Julian Patel asked politely, May I join you, ladies? His gorgeous British accent was a counterpoint to his soulful black eyes and dark coffee complexion.

Sure. Diane fluttered her long lashes and beamed.

Julian took the chair opposite her. Tall, red haired Diane attracted admirers everywhere with her striking figure and vivacious friendliness. Their guide was the merely the most recent of many devotees. She chirped, I’m Diane Stewart and my friend is Estelle Wright.

It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please call me Julian. We’ll be spending a lot of time together during the tours.

Diane asked, Do you enjoy being the guide?

Julian shrugged. It pays the bills. I’m a student at the University and lead tours for my summer job.

Diane said enthusiastically, You must know tons about the place. All the rumors, the secret hidey holes and haunted halls.

Not in St. Swithin’s. He waved a slender hand at the walls and grinned. The college has gone through so many renovations, any ghosts would have been vanquished by the builders.

Sitting beside her friend, Estelle ate in silence. She inspected the new arrivals at their table. Two young men walked up, ogling Diane’s auburn tresses and classical profile. Sitting near Diane, they talked loudly and enthusiastically about their yachts. They talked of nothing but sailing for the rest of the meal, presumably intending to impress Diane with their wealth and bravado. Their nautical conversation soon bored Estelle, although she was surprised by her friend’s lack of interest in acquiring new escorts.

The older crowd congregated at the adjacent table. A foursome of tourists behind Estelle raved about the splendors of Rome and the Alpine scenery.

During a rare pause in Diane’s lively chatter, Estelle seized the opportunity to ask Julian, Are these people all students at the summer course?

Good question. He smiled at her, his teeth bright white against his dark complexion. We run two summer programs in parallel at St. Swithin’s. There’s the six-week summer course you’re enrolled in, and a set of weeklong programs for adult education, or mostly tourists. The students take a full set of classes for credit and selected educational trips, while the tourists have guided excursions in the city and neighboring region. Their sessions include evening entertainments like local concerts and plays. Some of our tours to popular destinations have a mix of students and holidaymakers.

When Julian had finished his explanation, Diane reclaimed his attention. Estelle concentrated on her plate of cold ham and salad greens. She did not begrudge Diane’s popularity. After all, she had Toby. She envisioned his teasing drawl, muscular build and bad boy vibes. His rare smile that transformed his face from surly to handsome. The warm thrill of lying in his arms. Her super strong Toby. Or did she have him? The future of their relationship was uncertain.

Reading her mind, or more likely edging out a potential rival for Julian’s attentions, Diane asked, How’s Toby?

Shaking her head, Estelle said, Haven’t heard from him for ages. He’s in California this summer for an internship. She shrugged, hoping to forestall further inquiries. I’m not surprised he hasn’t called. He never likes to chat on the phone.

A man of few words, Diane