Page 13 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)

Chapter Twelve

R aven

The air hits differently here. Thick with humidity and mystery, it wraps around us like velvet as we step from the car onto the uneven sidewalk of New Orleans’ Garden District.

Spanish moss drips from ancient live oak trees, creating dappled patterns on the cracked pavement.

After a twelve-hour drive from the sanctuary, my legs feel wobbly as I stretch.

“So this is the famous New Orleans,” Lucius observes, his pale eyes taking in every detail of the historic neighborhood. “It reminds me somewhat of Pompeii—the sense of age and stories in the stones.”

A small smile tugs at my lips. “Comparing American architecture to ancient Rome? That’s generous.”

“Not the structures themselves,” he clarifies, “but the spirit of the place. It feels… alive with those who have passed.”

That’s precisely why I suggested this location for our first collaboration.

New Orleans understands death differently than most places—celebrates it, acknowledges it, builds monuments to it that tourists flock to see.

For a death priest turned gladiator and a goth podcaster, it’s practically a homecoming.

The guesthouse I booked stands before us, a Victorian beauty with gingerbread trim and a wide, welcoming porch. The proprietor, a woman with silver dreadlocks and bangles on each wrist, greets us at the door.

“You must be Rosemary,” she says, using my real name as I requested when booking. “I’m Imogene. Welcome to The Crescent Rest.”

“Thank you,” I say, shifting my duffel bag to shake her hand. “This is Lucius, my research consultant.”

Lucius extends his hand in the modern greeting the men have been taught. His Latin accent rolls through a simple “Pleased to meet you,” making it sound exotic and mysterious.

Imogene takes his hand and holds it a moment longer than necessary. I can’t blame her. Between his startling white-blond hair, pale complexion, and those unusual eyes that seem to shift between ice-blue and silver in different lights, Lucius commands attention without trying.

“I apologize for the room situation,” Imogene says, leading us up a creaking staircase. “When the paranormal conference announced the keynote by that medium everyone’s talking about, we got completely booked. I had to shuffle some reservations to keep yours at all.”

My stomach sinks. This wasn’t part of the plan. “Room situation?”

“I mentioned it in my email this morning,” Imogene says, giving me a sympathetic look. “Only had the Magnolia Suite left—it’s our largest room, but just the one bed. I offered to help find alternative accommodations if that’s a problem?”

The email must have arrived while we were on the road.

My mind races through options, but with the conference in town, every decent hotel in the city is likely booked solid.

This is our first real project together—testing whether we can work as a team before committing to the months of travel Norris wants for the full documentary series.

“We’ll make it work,” I say, avoiding Lucius’s gaze. “It’s just for a few nights.”

The suite proves to be a single large room with high ceilings, antique furniture, and—I feel my face heat—one queen-sized bed draped in a vintage quilt.

A set of French doors opens onto a small balcony from which you can see St. Louis Cemetery No.

1’s wall of above-ground tombs if you lean far enough over the railing.

After Imogene leaves, Lucius moves to the balcony, staring at the cemetery with undisguised interest. “The dead rest above ground here?”

“New Orleans is below sea level,” I explain, joining him and grateful for the subject change. “Bury a body, and it might come floating back up during the next heavy rain.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Practical. The Romans preferred cremation for similar reasons.”

Every breath feels significant, like we’re sharing the same air in a way that matters. The door closes with a finality that makes my pulse race. No going back now.

My phone rings, mercifully breaking the moment. David Norris’s name flashes on the screen.

“Raven! You’ve arrived?” His voice booms through the speaker without waiting for confirmation. “Excellent! I’ve set up a meeting with the production team for tomorrow morning, and we’ve secured special access permits for several locations.”

“That was fast,” I say, keeping my tone neutral despite my surprise. “We’ve literally just arrived.”

“Speed is essential in this business, my dear.” His enthusiasm never wavers. “I took the liberty of outlining a shooting schedule. We’ll need to discuss your… companion’s involvement.”

My gaze drifts to Lucius, who stands perfectly still, listening without expression to every word.

“We had an agreement about that,” I remind Norris firmly. “Lucius is a consultant only. No on-camera appearances.”

Norris’s sigh crackles through the line. “Raven, be reasonable. The bean counters’ interest spiked the moment you mentioned collaborating with a death ritual specialist. Our focus groups are going crazy for this mysterious expert angle.”

“Off-camera consultant,” I repeat. “That was our deal.”

“We’ll discuss tomorrow. Nine AM, Hotel Marsden, Royal Suite.” He disconnects before I can argue further.

Lucius’s expression remains carefully neutral. “Your patron grows increasingly demanding.”

“He’s not my patron,” I correct automatically. “He’s an executive producer. And yes, he’s pushing boundaries.”

“As all patrons do.” A faint smile touches his lips. “In Rome, they began with small requests, then larger ones, until eventually, you found yourself fighting lions for their entertainment.”

“I promise not to make you fight lions,” I quip, trying to lighten the mood.

His smile widens slightly. “A generous concession.”

The tension between us dissipates, replaced by something warmer. Lucius has a dry humor that emerges in unexpected moments, cutting through his usual solemnity like sunlight through clouds.

“Let’s explore before it gets dark,” I suggest, eager to show him the city. “Mr. Norris managed to get St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 to remain open for another hour to let us in.”

As we cross the street, we notice colorful Creole cottages and stately mansions. Lucius absorbs everything with quiet intensity—the street musicians playing jazz on corners, the scent of spicy food wafting from restaurants, the fortune tellers set up in Jackson Square.

“Your world contains such contradictions,” he observes as we pass a luxury clothing store next to a voodoo shop. “Sacred and profane, ancient and modern, all pressed together without boundaries.”

“Is that so different from Rome?”

He considers this. “Perhaps not. Rome embraced many gods, many cultures. But we maintained certain… separations. Your world blurs everything together.”

At St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, the famous above-ground tombs rise like a miniature city of the dead. Our footsteps echo on the narrow paths between family crypts, some dating back centuries. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across weathered stone and peeling plaster.

Lucius moves with reverence through the cemetery, occasionally touching a tomb, his eyes distant as though sensing something beyond my perception. He pauses before the famous tomb rumored to be Marie Laveau’s, studying the X marks scratched into its surface by superstitious visitors.

“These people seek favors from the dead,” he murmurs.

“Marie Laveau was a voodoo priestess,” I explain. “Legend says if you mark her tomb and leave an offering, she might grant your wish.”

“And do you believe this?”

The question throws me for a moment. “I… I don’t know. My near-death experience taught me there’s more beyond the veil than most people realize, but I’ve never tried to ask the dead for favors.”

He turns to face me fully, something unreadable in his expression. “What would you ask for if you could?”

The question feels weighty, significant. It’s fully dark now, with the silent tombs surrounding us. Honesty seems the only appropriate response.

“Understanding,” I admit. “I glimpsed something on the other side—something beautiful and terrifying. I’ve spent my adult life trying to make sense of it.”

He steps closer, and I’m acutely aware of the narrowness of the path, the way our bodies nearly touch in the confined space.

“Understanding is a gift rarely granted,” he says softly. “Even Pluto’s priests glimpsed only fragments of the afterlife’s mysteries.”

“But you’ve seen more than most,” I press. The cemetery has grown quiet around us. Other visitors are long gone, leaving us alone among the dead. “In the temple, you communicated with those who had passed.”

His fingers rise to brush a strand of hair from my face, the gesture so unexpected it steals my breath. “Death does not reveal its secrets easily, Rosemary Anne Vaughn. Even to those who serve it.”

The use of my full name sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the evening breeze. Somehow, from his lips, it sounds like an incantation.

“Then what did you learn in all those years?” My voice has dropped to a whisper, though we’re alone among the tombs.

“That life…” his fingers trail down the side of my face, impossibly gentle for a man trained to kill “… is precious because it ends. That connections between souls matter more than any temple or ritual.”

Perhaps it’s the setting, or the intensity in his silvered eyes, or simply the culmination of tension that’s been building since we met, but I find myself leaning toward him.

“Is that why you agreed to come with me? To find connection?”

His smile is slow, almost sad. “I agreed because I recognized something in you—someone who has walked between worlds, as I have.”

The glow of the streetlamps catches in his pale hair, creating a halo effect that befits his ghostly appearance. He leans forward, hesitating just before our lips meet, his breath warm against my skin.

“May I?” he asks, the formal request somehow more intimate than any modern pickup line.