Page 28 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
“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.
