Page 8 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
Surprise flickers across her expression, followed swiftly by intrigue. “The town cemetery? Why there?”
“Neutral ground. And an appropriate setting for the conversation you seek.”
“Midnight at the cemetery.” A smile lights her features, revealing perfectly straight modern teeth behind blood-red lips. “How wonderfully on-brand for both of us.”
The term confuses me. “On-brand?”
“Sorry. Modern expression.” She has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “It means consistent with one’s public image or identity.”
Her explanation only worries me more. If she views our meeting through the lens of performance and image, can anything genuine emerge from the conversation?
“Tonight, then.” She steps back toward her vehicle. “Thank you, Lucius. Seriously.”
“One condition, Rosemary.” The words emerge with temple authority. “Speak to me as yourself, not the mask you wear for others
She blinks, startled at the intimacy, her mask slipping just a little, revealing something more vulnerable beneath. Then composure returns, though not without effort.
“It’s just Raven now,” she says, voice carefully neutral. “Has been for years. But I take your point.” Her hand rises to the black hair with its hint of red roots. “I’ll leave the recording equipment behind.”
She seems to mean it—that “Raven” is who she is, not just a name for show. Maybe that’s true. Time will tell.
As she turns away, sunlight brushes the curve of her neck, the elegant line awakening a longing I haven’t known in millennia. She slides into her car, then says, “Oh. I promised coffee and pastries. I keep my word.” With that, she passes me a paper cup and a white bag I assume is full of the food she brought.
Questions linger as the SUV pulls away. Is her quest for validation genuine, or is she merely seeking content for her audience? Does she seek truth… or only echoes of what shealready believes? And why does her presence unnerve me so? One part of me doubts her—another feels as if I’ve known her across lifetimes. Caution pulls me back, yet something deeper draws me in. This is not idle curiosity. It runs deeper. Older.
Perhaps midnight will bring answers—or at least reveal whether this modern woman, marked with death upon her skin, truly seeks the shadowed truths of the underworld… or merely wears its symbols for show.
The dead, after all, always reveal the truth in time.
Chapter Four
Lucius
Midnight hangs like a curtain over the cemetery. Moonlight catches the weathered headstones, transforming ordinary marble into silver sentinels standing guard over Potosi’s dead. The night breathes cold against my skin, enough that my exhale ghosts into the air—faint, but real. A whisper of warmth in the stillness as I wait, wondering if she will come.
Raven’s red SUV appears at exactly midnight, headlights cutting through the darkness before blinking out. She emerges like a shadow, moving with surprising grace between the graves. Despite my request for her to come as herself, she still wears black from head to toe—though I notice subtle differences. Less dramatic makeup. Simpler clothing. Small concessions that suggest she’s at least considered my words.
“You came,” she says, a hint of surprise in her voice as she approaches. “Part of me thought you might change your mind.”
“I keep my word,” I reply in careful English. Though months of study have improved my grasp of this modern language, complex expressions still escape me. This time, I came prepared and hand her a translator so she can understand me for the rest of our conversation.
My gaze takes in her appearance—the silver jewelry, the layered black clothing. “Though it seems you struggled with the condition I placed on you.”
Her hand rises self-consciously to her hair. “This isn’t just a costume I put on for work, Lucius. It’s who I’ve been for years.” Her fingers tug at her sleeve, revealing more of the tattoos that line her arms. “These are permanent, you know. Not exactly something I can leave behind at the motel.”
That strikes me more deeply than I expected.
Perhaps the boundary between Raven and Rosemary is less defined than I had assumed.
“An identity built from trauma can become as real as the one given at birth,” I concede, recalling how quickly “The Ghost” became inseparable from my sense of self in the arena. “I appreciate the effort you made.”
Relief flashes across her features as she gestures to a stone bench nearby. “Shall we?”
The bench sits beneath a massive oak, its roots pushing through the soil around nearby graves. We settle onto the cool stone, close enough for conversation but maintaining a careful distance. Above us, stars pierce the velvet sky—familiar constellations although shifted from positions I once knew by heart.
“You said you’d tell me about your experience,” I remind her, turning slightly to study her profile in the moonlight.
Her fingers trace the outline of a skull tattooed on her wrist as she gathers her thoughts. “It was January. Ice storm. The car hit black ice on a curve and rolled three times before wrapping around a tree.” Her voice drops to nearly a whisper. “I remember the sound of metal crunching. The taste of blood. The cold seeping in as my body temperature dropped.”
