Page 3 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
She stills. A moment passes. Then, voice quieter, “I died once. Car accident when I was seventeen. Three minutes clinically dead before they brought me back. I saw things. Felt things. Things no one believes.”
Her mask slips then, and I see the truth—or what she believes to be the truth.
“Death leaves mark,” I say. “Even when it lets go.”
Her breath catches. Then her smile returns, small but real. “Exactly. That’s exactly it.”
She pulls a card from her coat and offers it. “If you change your mind, I’m staying at the Ironwood Motel.”
When my hand reaches to accept it, our fingers brush. The contact lingers a heartbeat longer than it needs to.
The letters blur, still unfamiliar. I can read a little, but not enough.
“Beyond the Veil, where this world meets the next,” she says, tapping the logo. “My info’s at the bottom.”
“I think.” I tap my temple even though my words surprise me.
Her smile deepens, pleasure overtaking persistence. “That’s all I ask.” She hefts her case, then pauses. “Will you get in trouble? For this?”
“No one knows,” I say, and wonder why I have no intention of telling anyone of this nighttime visitor so close to the Second Chance compound. Actually, I do know why I’m willing to keep her secret. I’m curious about this woman who walks comfortably among graves and claims death touched her.
“Thank you, Lucius.” The way she says my name—carefully, as if tasting each syllable—carries a peculiar intimacy. “Maybe we’ll meet again.”
“Maybe.”
Something about this Raven, with her dyed hair, death’s head rings, and claimed glimpse beyond mortality’s threshold, stirs memories of temple petitioners seeking confirmation of their brushes with the underworld. Most found little comfort in truth. Many were frauds, using tragedy to gain attention or status. A few, however, truly had been marked by their journey to death’s threshold. Which category does this modern woman with her electronic devices and carefully crafted appearance fall into?
I clutch the card as the cemetery returns to its familiar silence. Midnight communion with the dead must wait for another night. For now, my thoughts remain occupied with the living—specifically, one who walks the boundary between worlds with either remarkable authenticity or convincing artifice. Time will reveal which.
Chapter Two
Raven
The motel bathroom mirror doesn’t pull any punches under the harsh fluorescent lights. Brutal honesty in forty watts of unflattering reality. Dark circles shadow my eyes despite the heavy concealer trying to disguise them. The black makeup that’s supposed to be my signature look just makes me look like a raccoon who hasn’t slept in days. My hair needs touching up—the vibrant red roots are staging a rebellion against the black dye that’s been my signature look since college.
The cold water I splash on my face doesn’t wash away the memory of those impossible eyes. Pale skin. White hair. Eyes like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Lucius. Not just any gladiator, but a former priest of Pluto—the Roman god of the underworld. A genuine death priest. Standing in a cemetery at midnight like some fever dream made flesh.
“Holy shit, Raven,” I mutter to my reflection. “Talk about hitting the paranormal lottery.”
The recorder sits on the bathroom counter. That little red light blinks like a heartbeat, patient and steady. I tap play. Please work. Please tell me I didn’t imagine the whole thing.
His voice emerges clear as midnight. “They weren’t screaming.”
The recording’s perfect. Crystal clear.Real.My skin prickles with goosebumps that have nothing to do with the motel’s aggressive air conditioning. The way he’d materialized from the shadows, silent as death itself. Those pale features catching the moonlight as if he was carved from marble.
For a split second, I’d thought I was face-to-face with an actual ghost.But it wasn’t fear that made my pulse race when he stepped closer. It was something else entirely. Something that made my breath catch and my cheeks heat despite the cool night air. He carries death’s mark just as clearly as I do. Perhaps even more so.
A wave of almost giddiness washes over me. I actually met and spoke with one of the thawed Roman gladiators!
The story made international headlines a few years ago—a sunken Roman ship called theFortunadiscovered off the Norwegian coast, carrying fourteen gladiators who’d been perfectly preserved in ice for two thousand years. Scientists managed to revive them. The first to thaw was Varro, who now runs the Second Chance Sanctuary along with the archaeologist who discovered him, Laura Turner. The world went crazy for awhile, but then the novelty wore off, and the gladiators faded from daily headlines into the realm of occasional documentaries and academic papers.
But meeting one in person? That’s different. That’s like shaking hands with Julius Caesar or sharing coffee with Cleopatra. These men lived and breathed in ancient Rome, fought in actual arenas, and somehow survived impossible odds to wake up in our century.
Grabbing my laptop, I dive into research about albinism in ancient Rome. The results confirm my suspicions—people with his condition were considered touched by the gods.
Perfect irony, really. What ancient Romans saw as divine, modern medicine labels as a genetic abnormality. But after what I experienced on that cold metal table when my heart stopped beating, I’m not so quick to dismiss ancient wisdom.
My fingers trace the outline of the sugar skull tattooed on my right shoulder—my first ink after the accident. The needle hurt less than the memories it was supposed to help me process. My permanent reminder that I crossed over and came back changed. The comments section on my latest podcast episode is swimming with the usual skeptics calling me a fraud. Trauma victim. Attention seeker. Goth girl playing dress-up. The greatest hits of internet cruelty. If they only knew.
