Whether from the effects of all the wine she had drank or from the adrenaline rushing through her veins since stepping inside the mansion, Reine's usual inhibitions were dangerously lowered. Although Max was — in essence — a stranger to her, a slew of inexplicable feelings had risen to the surface the moment she saw him. And from the look on his face, she was sure he felt the same way about her.
As she followed him to her room, everything that had happened in the previous hours began replaying in her mind.
Unfortunately, no matter how hard she tried, she still couldn't recall what had happened during that night in Venice or anything before it. All of the blind speculation just slowly built up to cause her increasing alarm. By the time they reached the bedroom's door, all she wanted to do now was sleep and get closer to the clarity morning would bring.
However, Max blocked her way in and touched her face. "Talk to me, Reine. Either reciprocate or tell me to piss off, but don't act indifferent. I shouldn't feel like I'm violating you with every look."
That's when she lost her cool. A demanding attitude wasn't what she needed at that moment. She struggled out of his grip and turned to face him.
"I have so many unanswered questions, but you spent most of the night talking to everyone but me. In fact, the most significant thing you could say to me the entire time was that you don't like my hair color. So forgive me for making you feel uncomfortable!" she spat.
The slight uncertainty she'd been feeling all night suddenly turned into resentment. She pushed him out of the way and opened the door. Turning around, she continued. "At least you've known about me for — what — weeks? Months? Even longer? Well, this is all new to me so can you give me a bit more time to process it?"
Before he had the chance to respond, she doubled over and covered her mouth with her hands. Holding back the bubbling nausea making its way up her system, she ran inside and made it to the adjoining bathroom just in time to expel the contents of her stomach into the toilet. Max hurried after her, but he stopped in the doorway.
"How much wine did you have? I didn't see you eating much," he said.
"I lost count," she replied as soon as she could catch her breath. "But I've been feeling awful since waking up this morning."
He paused for a moment and his next question was more measured. "And what do you mean by all of this being new to you?"
Because she let that slip and there was no going back, Reine decided to finally be truthful. "I don't remember anything before waking up this morning. Why is that?"
Max rubbed his eyes and sighed. "Well, amnesia and feeling unwell only mean one thing for us."
"And what would that be?"
"I'm sorry, darling, but you died."
She squeezed her eyes together and let the words sink in.
She died.
And now she was alive. Apparently just like she'd been for the last five centuries.
Reine shook her head. It was impossible for her to process everything right now. She felt too miserable for that. But if he was right, then the most important questions were: how and at whose hand? Max had promised to eventually tell her everything, but there were some details she needed to know immediately.
"Do you know anything about that?" she asked as she turned her face toward him.
He frowned and stuck his hands in his pockets. "What do you mean?"
"Well, you're the reason I was in Venice, right? Because obviously that portrait of me still belongs to you. So the entire trip was just a setup leading me here."
Yes, he indicated with a quiet nod.
"Why? Why the charade? Couldn't you have just called me up and asked me over, like a normal person? I mean for goodness sake, Max. We live two hours apart."
"Are you sure you want to talk about this right now?" He was obviously referring to her being still crouched in front of the toilet bowl.
"Just get to the point, okay?"
He took a step backward and leaned against the door frame. "We first heard about you after Christmas. You survived a car accident that should have killed you. That type of news usually leads us to others of our kind. After a bit of poking around, I became increasingly convinced of your identity. But I couldn't risk being wrong, especially since someone else was after you, too."
"What? There's someone else?"
"Yes. They ransacked your office. I had no need for that. Worst of all, I didn't know who was behind it. And that worried me. I had hoped to draw whoever it was following you out into neutral territory. Everything about Venice was ideal: the auction, Carnevale, . . . everything. I was going to quietly catch the bad guy and then reveal myself to you. But something happened."
She sighed. "They got to me anyway."
"I'm sorry, Reine. I don't know what happened, but I failed to protect you," he said with obvious regret.
This is unreal, she thought. "Who did it? How?"
He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. "Are you sure you don't remember anything?"
"You know I don't, so stop asking!" Her amnesia was frustrating, but suddenly Reine realized she did notice something that could be useful to Max. "Those people at the airport. The ones who were asking me about the portrait. They may be involved somehow."
"What? Are you sure?" The tone in his voice was surprising. It was as if someone who was used to being in control suddenly had the rug pulled out from under him.
"Yes. The woman who questioned me when I got off the plane was missing a charm from her bracelet. I found one in my pocket that could have been it."
"Do you recall her name? Or who she said she represented?" he asked.
Reine closed her eyes and took a deep breath to clear her head. So many new things had happened in the last few hours that she needed a moment to remember.
"Singh, I think. Yes, Jameela Singh, with Interpol," she said.
Max considered the meaning of this information before responding. "Thank you, that's extremely helpful."
He took a step towards her, but she dismissed him with a wave of her hand. Her head was now pounding; she couldn't decide whether to cry or scream. It was so intense, and there was nothing anyone could do to help.
She spent most of the night either kneeling or crumpled at the base of the porcelain fixture until her stomach was completely empty, and there was nothing more to throw up. Max occasionally returned to check on her, even bringing a glass of water at one point. Between delirium and desperation for sleep, she eventually began to sing one of her favorite tunes. Resting her head on her drawn up knees, she hoped the melancholy words of Dream a Little Dream would lull her to sleep.
It didn't work, but after dragging herself back to the empty bed, the world finally went dark.