Fitzgerald peeked through the slightly open door.
Inside, Catherine sat nestled in Maximilian's embrace, the two speaking softly in a language he could not understand. Maximilian looked exhausted, but unmistakably awake—alert enough to hold her close, answer her, even smile.
Fitzgerald blinked.
Only a few hours ago, the man had been unconscious. Now he was talking. Walking. Holding Catherine as though nothing had happened.
There was only one logical explanation, Occam's razor and all.
Catherine was a witch. An actual witch.
He folded his arms thoughtfully.
That explained the impossible recovery... and probably those increasingly bizarre dreams he kept having around her too.
Yes.
Voodoo.
Definitely voodoo.
"Have somewhere to stay?"
Alexander's voice pulled Fitzgerald out of his increasingly scientific conclusion.
