"Donald and Liam both had pointed ears, but other than that they all seemed human."
"Were Donald and Liam circumcised?" I asked.
Her voice came out in a hurried rush, color high in her cheeks again. "Why do you need to know that?"
"Because a real male fey would be hundreds of years old, and I've never heard of a Jewish fey, so if they were fey, they wouldn't be circumcised."
She met my eyes. "Oh," she said, then she thought about the original question. "Liam was, but Donald wasn't."
"What did Donald look like?"
"Tall, muscular, like a weight lifter, blond hair to his waist."
"Was he pretty?" I asked.
She had to think about that one, too. "Handsome, not pretty, handsome."
"What color were his eyes?"
"I don't remember."
If they'd been one of the more colorful shades of eyes that the fey are capable of, she'd have remembered. Except for the pointed ears he could have been any of a dozen men at the Seelie Court. There were only three blond men at the Unseelie Court, and none of my three uncles lifted weights. They had to be more careful of their hands than that for fear they'd rip the surgical gloves they always wore. The gloves kept the poison that their hands naturally produced from rubbing off on anyone else. They'd been born cursed.
"Would you recognize this Donald if you saw him again?"
"Yes."
"Was there anything the same about all the men?" Jeremy asked.
"They all had long hair like he has, shoulder-length or longer."
Long hair, possible cartilage implants in the ears, Celtic names- sounded like faerie wanna-bes to me. I'd never heard of a sex cult of faerie wanna-bes, but you should never underestimate people's ability to corrupt an ideal.
"Good, Ms. Phelps," Jeremy said. "How about tattoos, symbols written on their bodies, a piece of jewelry that they all wore?"
"No to all of it."
"Did you meet only at night?"
"No, sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes at night."
"No special time of the month, not close to a holiday?" Jeremy asked.
She frowned at him. "I've been seeing him only a little over two months. There haven't been any holidays, but no special time."
"Did you have sex with him or others a certain number of times a week?"
She had to think about that one, but finally shook her head. "It varied."
"Did they chant or sing?" Jeremy asked.
"No," she said.
It didn't sound like much of a ritual to me. "Why did you use the term ritual, Ms. Phelps? Why didn't you say spell?"
"I don't know."
"You do know," I said. "You're not a practitioner. I don't think you'd use the term ritual without a reason. Just think for a minute. Why that word?"
She thought about it, eyes staring into space, seeing nothing, tiny frown lines between her eyebrows. She blinked and looked at me. "I heard him talking on the phone one night." She looked down, then up, defiant again, and I knew she didn't like what she was about to say. "He'd tied me to the bed, but he'd left the door open a little. I could hear him talking. He said, 'The ritual will be good tonight,' then his voice dropped too low for me to hear, then he said, 'The untrained ones give it up so easily.' She looked at me. "I wasn't a virgin when we met. I was ... experienced. Before him, I thought I was good in bed."
"What makes you think you're not?" I asked.
"He told me that I wasn't good enough at straight sex to satisfy him, that he needed the abuse to spice it up, so he wouldn't be bored." She tried to stay defiant and failed. The hurt showed in her eyes.
"Were you in love with him?" I tried to make the question gentle.
"What difference does that make?"
Frances took her hand, held it in her lap. "It's all right, Naomi. They're going to help us."
"I don't see what love has to do with any of this, she said.
"If you love him, then it will be harder to free you of his influence, that's all," I said.
She didn't seem to notice that I'd changed loved to love. She answered the question. "I thought I loved him."
"Do you still love him?" I hated having to ask, but we needed to know.
She gripped the other woman's small hand in both of hers, knuckles whitening with the strength of her grip. The tears finally slid down her face. "I don't love him, but..." she had to take a few deep breaths before she could finish, "but if I see him, and he asks for sex, I can't seem to say no. Even when it's awful and he's hurt me, the actual sex is still better than anything I've ever felt before. I can say no over the phone, but if he shows up, I let him ... I mean, I fight if he's beating me, but if it's during sex... it gets all confused."
Frances stood, moving behind the other woman's chair, spreading the afghan over both of them while she hugged her from behind. She made soothing noises, kissing the top of her head like you'd do with a child.
"Have you been hiding from him?" I asked.
She nodded. "I have, but Frances... He can find her no matter where she is."
"He follows the spell," I said.
Both women nodded as if they'd figured that much out for themselves. "But I've hidden from him. I moved out of my apartment."
"I'm surprised he didn't hunt for you," I said.
"The building is warded," she said.
I widened eyes at that. For a building to be warded, not just an apartment but the entire building, meant that the protective spells had to be put into the foundation of the building. The wards had to be poured with the concrete, riveted into place with the steel beams. It took a coven of witches, or several covens. No single practitioner could do it. It was not a cheap process. Only the most expensive high-rises or homes could boast of it.