Gabrielle and The Hounds of Arawn: Gabrielle's Adventure Through Time, #2

By zachary chopchinski

A new life. A new demon. A war between good and evil.

In this gripping sequel, Gabrielle is sent back to revolutionary France with more questions than answers. But with even more demons hunting her down, Gabrielle must fight to get to the bottom of this puzzle before Arawn finds a way to kill her.

When Morrigan appears, Gabrielle finds herself in the middle of a much bigger battle than she could have imagined. Can she take on the past and un-seen evil or will she succumb to Arawn's threats?

• Language: English
• Publisher: zachary chopchinski
• Release date: Aug 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781536890969

Book preview

PROLOGUE

THE AROMATIC SMELL of fire and baking bread filled the air of the small, flour-coated bakery as the sun began to creep through the front window, casting streams of bright sunlight across the stone floor

The great furnace that held the rising treats radiated heat in the back of the shop as Marc placed his goods on a counter at the front of the bakery.

With pride in his eyes, he filled baskets, shelves and cutting stones with grand displays of baked goods. Marc hung rings of bread in his shop window to entice the passersby to come and taste.

Marc had been a baker all his life. It was a family business and he found joy in his craft. This very shop had been in his family for three generations. This was his home, his love... his life.

Never having married, Marc poured all he had into his craft; which had proven wise and profitable. He was the best baker in France (as the locals claimed), but he knew all too well that no one ever left their small town. The cost was too steep and unachievable within the impoverished city—or at the very least, in Versailles.

The turmoil that ravaged the place he called home weighed on the hearts of its citizens. The king and his court lived in elegance, while his people delved deeper into poverty.

Marc was placed in an interesting predicament in this trying time; bakers held a distorted level of power as bread had become a large staple in the diets of the people. He mixed flour, yeast and other ingredients, place them within the old oven, and produced culinary gold.

As bad as things were in Versailles, Marc found solace in believing that he felt things would turn around for the people soon. Since the storming of the Bastille, his fellow countrymen proved they wouldn’t sit idle. Change was in the air and Marc knew that good things were right around the corner.

Stepping back, he admired his work. Everything was in its place and his goods looked like they’d been painted into place by Vigee Le Brun herself.

The stacks of loaves were even and steady, his baguettes protruded from their baskets like an edible flower arrangement. He even managed to get his hands on some late-season apples and had created some delicious tarts that he hoped would sell this morning.

Marc took the base of his apron and wiped the flour from his face. He ran his fingers through his beard and hair, brushing out the bits of flour and straightening his appearance.

With himself as presentable as his breads, Marc took a deep breath, savoring the smells of the morning's hard work. The smell of sweet dough made his stomach growl and gave him a little smile of pride.

The smile crept farther across his face as he made his way to the front door. Marc stood with one hand on the handle and the other on the lock, and looked through the glass to the street outside.    The sun stretched down the avenue and he could see other shops beginning their day. A group of young ladies scurried passed his door, giving him hope that he would make a sale.

With an optimistic smile on his face, Marc unlocked and cracked the door. He stuck his nose through the narrow opening as the brisk morning air nipped at its tip.

Marc had a good feeling and a small celebration of good blessing was in order. He grabbed a small, wooden goblet from a shelf in his back storeroom and knelt to the barrel of wine which he kept under a shelf. Raising his cup to the sky, he tilted his head backward.

Cheers, to October the 5th. May our troubles be behind us and good tidings ahead! Mark brought the cup to his lips and smelled the sweet bitterness of the red liquid. Before he could enjoy its flavor, he heard a crash from the front of the store.

At first, he was at a loss as everything still looked to be in its place. Then, his eyes found themselves to a large stone that sat in the center of the floor. There were glass shards scattered all over the room, which then brought Marc’s eyes to his front window.

A large hole illustrated how the stone entered the shop. Marc stood in shock as his glass of wine fell from his hands and shattered on the floor. He crept towards the stone, eyes glued to it as if he expected it to jump up and hit him.

Who would find it necessary to throw a stone through my window?

Looking around Marc noticed that not only was the glass smashed in but his entire window display of bread had been taken. He’d never been robbed before, and the acrid taste of bile crept up his throat.

With all hopes of a pleasant day vanishing from his heart, Marc reluctantly turned and walked back to the storeroom. He grabbed a broom and a dustpan to address the mess left by the thief.

When he came back to the front room, the edges of a smile formed on his face at the sight of a woman.  She’d let herself in and was looking around the store. Maybe today would work out after all. The woman was a regular customer and Marc recognized her right away.

Morning Mrs. St— The newly formed smile, transformed into a grimace as he noticed her strange appearance. Her once beautiful brown hair was disheveled, sweat poured down her face and she looked flush, as if she’d run a marathon. Her clothing looked clean, but there was a large rip across her left sleeve and her usually pressed dress was wrinkled.

She stood at the shelving, helping herself to the tarts. She threw them into a sack and walked across the shop, casually stepping over the glass. Without missing a beat, the disheveled patron turned on her heels and made her way back towards the entrance.

Hey! Marc stepped out from around the counter and waved his broom at the woman thief filling a sack with his hard work.

At the sound of his voice, the woman halted. Then, with a wicked smile that stretched the entirety of her face, she ran for the front door. Marc dropped his broom and took pursuit after the woman.

The feeling of the cool morning air on his flushed face sent a chill through his body. As he took in his surroundings, the chill turned into frozen fear. Halting in place so quickly that he nearly fell forward, Marc stood petrified in the presence of madness. Hell had found its way to his steps.

He couldn’t move, hear, or speak; he could only watch as masses of women trashed through shops, shattering windows and tipping carts. Marc rubbed his eyes in disbelief at the savage looks on their faces. This must all be a terrible dream, one where everyone went simultaneously mad, Marc thought as he tried to force the vision away.

No, this was reality. He’d seen this sort of ravenous behavior in packs of dogs that lived in the hills just outside of Versailles. These people were starving and their anger had clearly boiled up to insanity.

He was jolted back to reality as a group of women ran past him, causing his ears to ring. He felt the blood fill his limbs and the numbing buzz throughout his body gave way to a chill. The owner of the vegetable cart across the street was forced to the ground by three women, his face smashing against the cobblestones.

Two of the assailants—who appeared to be bourgeoisie despite their tattered clothing—helped themselves to the goods from his cart. The third woman raised her hands and called to her fellow attackers, drawing their attention to Marc.

Marc’s eyes passed from one wicked gaze to the next and his spirit seemed to vacate his body completely. The world seemed to be ending on this once ideal morning, and all he could see were the sinister eyes of five women tearing through his soul.

The women dropped in their stances, and lunged toward him. The ferocity pouring from their outreached arms and screaming voices was unlike anything he’d ever seen.

Turning on his heels, he wheeled around and sprinted back through the doorway of his shop. Just as Marc’s hands swiped at the bolt on the old, heavy door, he felt the weight of several ferocious attackers press in against him. He fell to the floor and, as his back hit the cold ground, several women poured through the entrance like smoke through an open window.

The first two women were on Marc from the moment they stepped in the shop, while the last three spread to the side and moved past him into his store.

Instinctively, he brought his foot up to deflect his first attacker. The ball of his foot smashed into her bosom, flushing the color from her face as she fell sideways to the floor, gasping and holding her chest.

Like a cat on its prey, the second woman was on top of him, scratching at his face and grabbing his hair. He struggled to get his arms out from under her but she was too heavy. The wild woman grabbed a fistful of his hair, raised his head and slammed it down to the ground.

A burst of pain erupted from the back of Marc’s head and a warm substance dripped down his neck. As his head smacked off the floor for the second time, his vision began to fade out.

Marc awoke to indistinguishable yelling. He still only saw black as he struggled to open his eyes and see what was going on around him. I’m still alive, he thought to himself.

As he cracked one eye, he saw the ravenous woman still on top of him but preoccupied with yelling at another woman across the room.

Marc took this opportunity and brought his hand up, striking his attacker and casting her to the wooden floor. As she fell from her perch, he used her momentum and drew himself up to address the other three raiders.

Marc stumbled as a sharp sting and dull throb presented itself from the back of his head. He took a second to probe  the injury and, as he brought his hand back, he could see the sticky red liquid that covered it. Alarm ran rampant through his body.

Suddenly, a hard object hit Marc in the head as another hit him behind the knee. He found himself falling to the ground, unable to hold up his body any longer. The grain of the aged, wooden floor dig into the flesh of his knees as his weight crashed down upon them.

The crack to his head sent a warm sensation down his neck to his ear, and trickling into his shoulder. A sudden urge to vomit filled his throat as a morbid senselessness enveloped him. The room began to falter and tilt. Silence fell upon Marc’s ears and color began to fade from sight.

He knew he was at the mercy of his assailants, yet he couldn’t muster the strength to raise his arms in even the faintest of protests. All he could do was stare at the jarred entryway that was his shop’s door to the contravening masses moving through the street.

Although he could no longer feel anything, Marc sensed he’d sustained another hit to his head. Despite the lack of pain, he fell forward, his face colliding with the hard wood of the floor.

As he lay, face down on the wood, something drew his attention. For a moment he saw him, a dark figure with long white hair and red eyes stood watching the events that took place. An expression of joy covered the figure’s face as he lethargically chewed on a piece of bread.

Marc tried to call out with his eyes, begging him for help, but the white-haired man continued chewing, as if he wasn't aware of what was happening around him. Marc brought his gaze back to the doorway; his vision began to fail and a tunnel clouded his vision.

Suddenly, from the gaining darkness, a face came into view. A woman was standing in the doorway. He couldn’t place her, but he felt like they’d crossed paths once before.

Twisted with fear and concern, the face of the young woman was unlike the savage scowls of his attackers. Her expressions were not dominated by rage and wretchedness, but by concern and unease.

Marc’s gaze drifted from her face to her hands where she held a small knife. As he lay dying on the floor of his beloved store looking up at this woman, the urge to protest finally ended and he let his eyes close.

CHAPTER ONE

ARISING FROM A HORRIFYING dream, Gabrielle gasped, as though she’d never breathed before. Despite her eyes being open, they had yet to come into focus and the world around her was blurred and dark.

Sweat ran down her back, soaking her nightgown and giving her the sensation of being wrapped in a chilled towel after a cool bath.

Gabrielle’s sandy blonde hair looked black as the remnants of her nightmare had caused her hair to cling to her face. The dreams—though sometimes sweet—were her only confirmation that she was, in fact, living the life of another woman.

The nightmares were always different, but they all had one thing in common, the dark figure with white hair. Shaking the horror from her mind, she thought back to what Alexandra said the last time they spoke. About how this was her decision to live the