Page 27 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
The road stretches ahead, carrying us toward New Orleans and whatever challenges await. But the true journey, I suspect, will happen in the space between performance and truth, between Raven and Rosemary, between the Ghost and Lucius.
Chapter Twelve
Raven
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.”
