Chapter 9. "True Feeling"
* * *
Santelli found Augen quickly. He didn't even have to ask. Where could a man be preparing to depart from the local "hospitable" lands? Of course, in the biggest tavern, which is always crowded, and even more so when it rains.
The brigadier's appearance did not go unnoticed, but without the traditional pat on the back, handshakes, and other rituals that men use to greet and say goodbye. Rumors of Santelli spending time in a special place called "Heterion" had already spread through the Gate, so the Brigadier's appearance next to Augen, who joked most vividly and pointedly about the Brigadier's specific predilections, was understood correctly.
Challenges on the wastelands are simple, requiring no special tricks or seconds. It's not Kingdoms. People see and hear, and that's good enough. So Santelli didn't waste any time with unnecessary words.
"Boy," the brigadier's voice seemed to exude a honeyed sweetness that contrasted with Santelli's eyes, which burned with the dark fire of murder. "A man with such a sharp tongue must have an equally sharp blade. And I'd like to get a closer look at it."
Wooden, clay, and pewter mugs, bottles, and jugs clattered their bottoms against the sturdy tables. The roar of the tipsy brethren almost blew out the bubble-tight windows. The news bounced from house to house, through the wet streets, like sparks from a fire, gathering people together.
There will be a fight!
The rain pounded down from the frowning, gray skies as if someone up there had directed a full-flowing river down. Water flowed down the streets, carrying debris and muddy mud, flooding the eyes and penetrating even well-oiled leather jackets, not to mention ordinary clothes. The linen and wool clung to their bodies like cold rags. And yet quite a few (or rather a lot) of the Gate's inhabitants had ventured out of the safe houses, inns, and brothels with gambling houses. Other people's deaths are the most exhilarating sensation, the sweetest sight for a crowd. And though mores in the largest town in the Wasteland were simple and murder frequent, even here, open fights did not happen often enough to become a daily habit.
The duelists fought in silence, moving in a deep puddle, splashing muddy water. And the crowd was silent - the betting on such fights was forbidden, as it had been since time immemorial. Only Pantocrator decides who will win, and profiteering from God's judgment was not pleasing to Him. Few people believed this, but there are traditions that no one dares to break.
The axe and cleaver thudded against the small round shields, beating out a frightening rhythm. Augen was younger and a little stronger. But, besides, he was not yet hemmed in by the wastelands and feared death, too much in love with life. Santelli was more experienced and knew for sure at least one dead man would be carried from this rally. The brigadier fought calculatedly and methodically, exhausting his opponent with precise blows to his shield so that all his strength went to his opponent's arm, reverberating in his muscles and joints. Augen tried to bombard the brigadier with a hail of blows, aiming mainly at his left leg, but Santelli skillfully kept his distance.
The spectators were silent, the fighters were silent, and only the heavy breathing was wheezing out of Augen's chest. The young fighter was exhausted too quickly. The water was pouring, so much so that the roofs were humming under the pressure of the elements.
Fear flashed in the young bully's eyes, a faint, almost imperceptible shadow. But the experienced Santelli did not miss it. The brigadier became even more cautious and calculated, knowing that the fear of death multiplies strength and that the enemy can pull any trick. It is always on the threshold of victory that one must be most careful.
A blow, another blow. The brigadier's shield began to come apart at the joints of the boards. Several rivets had already fallen out, the waxed skin dangling in shreds. Augen's shield was more expensive and sturdy, but now with every parry, the bully wrinkled painfully. His hand was numb from the brigadier's brutal blows, and every thrust struck the bone and joint like a nail.
Augen pretended to be completely tired and stumped on his feet, but Santelli wasn't buying that inept trick. He hunched over, shielded himself, and swung his axe in a circle. Augen attacked with a fierce shriek, pushing himself to the limit. He chopped Santelli three times in a row, in quick succession. Even mitigated by skillful parrying, the blows nearly shattered the brigadier's shield, splinters flying in all directions. As the excited Augen raised his cleaver for the fourth blow, rejoicing at his quick victory, Santelli counterattacked.
A swift swing of his shattered shield thwarted the young man's attack, causing him to recoil. The brigadier slid in behind his foe, preventing him from breaking the distance. He hooked Augen's shield with the edge of his axe and yanked it aside, deflecting, literally opening his foe's defenses like a clam shell. He hit with his shield, or rather the remains of it, in the chest. Augen lost his balance. He could not roll to the side to evade an attack. The young man swung his weapon incongruously, almost blindly. He missed and received another blow, this time a full-blown one that threw the victim into the dirt.
The club and the axe are the weapons of one successful strike. If you are without armor, all you have to do is make one misstep, and the fight is over. And so it was. Augen didn't have enough for the "retaliatory strike" Kai mentioned. He screamed, dropped his weapon, and tried to crawl away. He tried to crawl away, but the water splashed across the foul turf, and the brown, muddy ground was joined by dark purple, almost black spots, dispersing quickly, like drops of ink in a teacup. The dying man was writhing his legs and howling, with no hope of mercy, no longer conscious of anything, driven only by unthinking fear. A muffled howl mingled with the wheezing of a severed lung.
Santelli didn't even seem to change his face. He dropped the remains of the useless shield from his hand, tossed the axe, and intercepted it "carpenter's way," with the blade forward as if for hammering nails. Now, when all that was needed was to finish off a helpless adversary, the blade should have been spared. They might as well have said something nice for the audience. They liked that on the Wastelands. If only to curse at least one last time at the half-wit who had forgotten that a man should always be ready to answer for his words with a weapon in his hand.
But the foreman said nothing, and the spectators were not amused with a colorful word. He silently stabbed Augen in the head and repeated it twice more to the noise of the rain and the splash of water coming from the gutters. They absorbed as if wrapped in soft, absorbent cotton, the crunch of a fractured skull.
The brigadier straightened up and wiped the blood off his weapon mechanically. Raindrops mingled with the blood, dripping with pink foam on his fingers. Santelli breathed in the clean air, cleansed of dust and smoke by the rain. He wiped his face with the palm of his hand. And went to the Heterion, still with an axe in his hand.
No one followed him. The dead man curled up in a dark red puddle, was very quickly stripped, for he had nothing of value on him except his boots, his weapon, his amulet around his neck, and his good leather pants. Santelli's funny pun about a sharp tongue and a sharp blade went straight to the people, for it was well said.
* * *
Lena was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall with a halted, empty gaze. There was a window in her room, a real one, with a thin plate of mica and even an opening frame (rich by local standards). Behind this window, they drank and walked, so much so that it seemed the mica glass was about to fall out. The natives didn't seem to be bothered by the fierce rain, a real downpour that wasn't going to stop.
In a room about three meters by three meters, there was a stool, built without nails, on wooden spikes; a jug of water; a two-fingered shelf on the wall; a coat rack in the corner, a wooden cross, and an empty chest, so decrepit and woodworm-eaten that it looked as if it were about to crumble into weightless gray ash. A towel hung sadly on the hanger, and its threads were loose at both ends. The apprentice had nothing else for the time being except to eat (twice a day, breakfast and dinner). Other necessities of life were not forbidden for her to buy for future income. Or not to buy.
No, there was also a copper spike with a bifurcated end hammered into the wall. It was a holder for a match, a candle, or a small oil lamp. Now a long leather cord, soaked in some kind of grease, burned in it. Such, as the girl realized, were often used here instead of expensive candles.
And clothes issued "on credit". Well-recognizable solid wooden boots, pounding with every step, like nails in a coffin lid. "Underwear" in the form of a long linen shirt and the familiar thong. Another shirt on top of the undershirt, but longer, thicker, and sleeveless. And finally, the wool dress itself, out of size, was worn and repaired many times. A dense cap on her head with "ears" descending almost to her shoulders. A wide linen sash, in which she could somehow tie various small things, but Lena had not yet figured out how.
The stomach was digesting... not food, but rather a mass. A kind of steamed gruel of coarsely crushed corn (or rather, what looked most like corn, only pale green), sparingly flavored with lean oil and completely tasteless.
Tomorrow, even before dawn, was the promise of a rise and the beginning of a new working life, along with a demonstration of medical skills. Matrice did not even try to soften Hel's introduction to her new life. The apprentice's prospects were outlined at once in curt but expressive tones. Work and unquestioning obedience, in the long term rising to the level of what in the usual terms could be called "practicing physician under the auspices of the corporation," that is, the Apothecary. An enviable prospect, by the way, judging by the whispers. Good medicine was very important to the way of life of the Gate dwellers. Any other behavior had only one result: billing for apprenticeship and charging by any means convenient to the master.
The carrot and the stick. It's as simple as that. A Medic in a creepy city of assassins and hunters for the mysterious underground Profit or ...
"Or" read quite transparently and clearly. An encounter with Routier Ranyan, an utterly ruthless mercenary, and murderer of little girls. Who, as the girl now clearly understood, had only miraculously missed his "Spark", killing completely uninvolved people in passing. Matrice would make a profit on Hel in any case. If the hands don't bring profit, the head sold to the murderer will.
* * *
It wasn't always quiet and peaceful at the Heterion. But it was always safe and relatively decent. The audience was decent, well-mannered, and solvent. The place was relatively small, but it could satisfy the most demanding demands. Because when people walk on the edge of death, their lust for life and carnal pleasures is heightened.
Santelli lingered for a while on the first floor, where among the curtains, hung in seeming disorder and creating an atmosphere of privacy, one could have a couple of glasses of wine and chat with useful people. At other times a pair of burly guards at the entrance would have politely but emphatically recommended the foreman get rid of his weapons, leaving the unwanted iron in a special trunk. At another time, Santelli would have complied without objection. Not this time, however. Everyone already knew what had happened, both today and before. So no one stopped the foreman. There are always rules to follow, but there are situations where the rules become very flexible in interpretation. On the other hand, even in such cases, it is better not to step on some sore spots...
Anyway, Santelli entered the Heterion with his gun, wet to the skin, but first, he drank a glass of wine with the Honourable Gee. Once upon a time, the steward's name was Swallower, and he was a pimp in far-off civilized places. But, like Matrice, he had left the past behind him, having achieved far more in the Wastelands.
"It will become expensive for you," the Venerable Gee informed him briefly, finishing his wine. He did not explain what it was. It was obvious as it was. "Very expensive."
"Not more expensive than money," the usually terse Santelli seemed to have the talent of a philosopher erupted today.
Gee shook his head with restrained approval, remembering the good turn of phrase. But the approval flew from his heavy wide face like the wind blew it away. The situation was very unpleasant. For everyone.
"You won't," Gee stretched out with great doubt. "It would be easier for you to buy out their contract."
"Not easier. It certainly isn't now. I'll pay you back," Santelli decided to wrap up the courtly conversation, and there was a fatal predetermination in his voice. "By the way..."
"Yes?" raised an eyebrow at the Venerable.
"I always wanted to know, but somehow I forgot... Where did they come from? Heterion is good, no doubt about it. But let's face it. They're a little too..." Santelli hesitated looking for the right word.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
"Classy," chuckled Venerable Gee, folding his hands on his voluminous belly. Gee never wore rings. It was a memory of the days when his primary means of admonishing female workers was his fist. A ring is the best way to hurt the face.
"More red wine?" inquired the Venerable.
"No," Santelli said briefly, indicating that time was of the essence.
"Okay. It's a long story, almost like a fairy tale."
There was a loud, distinctly hysterical woman's laughter from above muffled by the walls and the thick curtains. Immediately afterward, there was a whipping as if a good whip had been struck on the saddle. There was a woman's laughter again. This time it was interspersed with distinctly male cries. No one paid any attention to this. It's the workday routine.
"A fairy tale?" Santelli asked.
"Yes. There's the rich background, the loving father, the early death of the mother, and the wicked stepmother. Intrigue, poisoning, father's death, exile, fleeing to the ends of the earth, and more. Would you like to hear the full story?"
"No," Santelli shook his head slowly, one of the pigtails tucked behind his ear slowly sliding down his cheek.
"Also true," Gee approved. "The mystery is more interesting."
"Pour me a bottle. For three," the foreman didn't specify, but the Venerable One understood perfectly. And he bloomed, hoping that the bearded man's murderous mood had abated.
Gee snapped his fingers, and the servant-girl (like everyone else here, young and very pretty, ready to serve her guest in any way she could) brought a small, faceted glass bottle with a silver cork on a simple brass but well-polished tray to the brigadier. Santelli took the bottle and walked slowly and heavily upstairs.
The venerable one gestured carelessly to the girl, who looked with some resentment at the "tarred man," who was totally indifferent to her youth and beauty, aptly emphasized by the frivolous attire. Gee sighed, hoping it would somehow work out. But just in case, he tugged at the string of rosaries around his neck that he had been using as an abacus. In case he actually had to count the loss.
Santelli crossed the threshold of a room in which he was familiar with every feature. Venerable Gee, though he was a scoundrel, knew his business. The furnishings would not have been ashamed of a middle-class saloon in the Kingdoms. The wooden walls were hidden beneath graceful folds of drapery. The screens were not of ordinary leather on wooden frames but of real parchment on which a skillful hand had drawn abstract patterns in red ink. There were several tables on gracefully curved legs and a clothes rack of intricately woven willow twigs coated in a glossy brown lacquer. There was also a bathtub. A real tin tub that didn't leak at all. It was running with steam now, filled nearly to the top. A white cloth covered the tub to keep the bather from coming into contact with the metal.
They were waiting for him. Or maybe not him, at least initially. Warming the water wasn't a quick thing to do. But either way, they were at his disposal now. Both of them.
Santelli clutched the vial, standing at the entrance and peering into familiar faces.
The alchemist of Heterion was a rather narrow specialist. He could do little. To be more exact, he was able to do only one thing, but very valuable - to feel people and their feelings and mental attitudes. This skill was in demand among various dangerous people - killers, routiers, brigadiers, bodyguards, and so on. It is always useful to know what awaits you behind a solid door or around the nearest corner, how many there are, and whether these people are preparing to kill. Venerable Gee found an original use for the alchemist's talent. He sat for days on end in a special room in the center of the building and listened to the feelings of the guests. Were they satisfied, had their desires satisfied? Whether they were leaving the place in pleasant relaxation (intending to stop by again) or whether they were harboring dissatisfaction (which would result in lost profits). Whose room did the dissatisfied left, and which of the employees did not show due diligence? The job is responsible and well-paid.
The alchemist did his best, and when Gee looked into the closet with a mute question, the worker only smiled with an obscene gesture. He was used to everything, experiencing with dozens of customers the delightful moments of fulfilled desires, from ordinary intimacy with a woman to very gruesome executions. But the invisible trident of pure white fire that erupted in the hall of the blond twins, combining into a pillar of pure energy, stirred even his senses.
The Venerable sighed with relief.
There will be no killing today.
* * *
Lena was sitting on the bed, a wooden trestle bed on crooked pieces of wood instead of normal shoes. She stared silently at the wall. The lace in the copper spike let out a trickle of smoke and went out. The room was in darkness, the moon was hidden in the clouds, and the torches in the street were out. The girl's dwelling was on the second floor, and beneath the wooden floor of narrow boards was a creaking mill, grinding rough some herbal ingredients. Tomorrow Lena would begin her training with the production of finer fractions, or powders.
Good question - what do they use to cut nails here? And do they cut their nails at all?
Lena lowered her head and hid her face in her hands. She had cried many times before, but this time the tears flowed on their own, uncontrollably, in a steady stream. When you have to go all the time, and people try to kill you all the time, there's no time to be sad. Now Lena was relatively safe, and the awareness of what had happened swept over her like a tsunami.
We're not in Kansas anymore. But you can't ride a tornado out of here. There are no roads or secret trails. And she was unlikely ever to return home. Parents, friends, home, a decorative fireplace, rapiers, an expensive diary, favorite clothes, a movie tablet, and old Eric Clapton CDs - all left behind.
Lena sobbed bitterly and hopelessly, wrapping her arms around herself and rocking on the bed. Clearly aware that Elena Klimova, her favorite daughter, a diligent student, just a wonderful girl, was disappearing here and now. Apparently, forever. And tomorrow, a woman named Hel will begin her struggle to survive in this damned world.
A door creaked open. In the darkness behind it, two yellow-green lights lit up. They were oval, elongated vertically, so it looked as if someone had actually lit two witch candles in the void. And between them was darkness. The lights moved forward, and a dark silhouette appeared in their wake. The uninvited shadow made a sound, and Lena involuntarily smiled through her tears. The cat purred. The familiar sound that four-legged and tailed people usually make over a bowl, asking "Why so little?" The shadow moved even farther, and the smile melted away. Lena realized it wasn't a cat.
The animal was very similar to the "cat" that had attacked her the previous morning, only smaller and, as far as I could tell in the weak light, not gray-sandy, but almost black. A clear member of the feline family, which had once separated from a common ancestor, and had gone its own long way.
The creature was the size of a small dog. Its ears reached down to Lena's knee. Its head was flattened, like a reptile's, but its eyes, on the contrary, were large and almost round. And they glowed differently than ordinary cats, with reflected light. The oval pupils seemed to glow with phosphorous lights from within. And after the neck, the body lost its cat-like shape completely, turning into the familiar "stool" - a short and almost square torso with four paws that seemed to be able to move its owner in any direction, regardless of the body's turn.
Two things kept Lena from screaming in horror. The first was that it was unlikely that a real, dangerous predator would be kept in an inhabited place. The second... The girl couldn't explain it in words. The Basilisk exuded the lust to kill, the fury of a hunter ready to revel in fresh blood. This beast, on the other hand, seemed somehow... calm. Wise and contemplative, if you could say so about a wordless animal. However, looking into the greenish eyes, Lena doubted the "animal" as well. It was a strange look. Not animal.
The beast entered the room. It didn't sneak in. It came in. It meowed again, cat-like. In one swift leap, it jumped onto the bed. Lena shuddered, not even frightened. The movement was so impetuous that her eye simply didn't register it. The black body blurred into a wide swath and came together already on the skinny bedspread, more like a frayed curtain.
The beast blinked and yawned, showing long fangs and a split tongue, but Lena still didn't feel threatened at all. Not a bit. On the contrary, the strange creature seemed to spread an atmosphere of calm, peacefulness around itself. She wanted to stroke it, but Lena was not sure that the local cats were accustomed to such caresses. The beast crouched down. At once, it picked up its long paws and sank down on its stomach, wiggling its very short, lynx-like tail. He ducked his head on the girl's knee and pressed his ears to the snake's head. He did not pull back, as cats do before lunging, but dropped to his sides. It seemed that a rumbling would follow, but the animal was silent. It still stared at Lena with a gaze that was not at all animalistic.
At last, the girl made up her mind and very carefully, trying to move her hand as slowly as possible, smoothed her guest along the strongly protruding spine with sharp links of vertebrae. Its fur was short and stiff, like tiny needles, and its skin was dry and hot. The beast seemed to have a temperature of about forty degrees. It must have needed a lot of food, with its size and accelerated metabolism...
Outwardly the beast did not react, but in Lena's soul a firm confidence stirred again - the caress was pleasant to him. The oval pupils dilated, the fire in them took on an orange hue, and the girl felt her fear and despair burn in that ghostly light. The beast seemed to drink away her grief, drying her like an autumn leaf to simple sadness.
"Who are you?" asked Elena quietly.
The guest, of course, did not answer. He only lifted his head and yawned again with a perceptible clang of long, ugly teeth. He covered his big eyes, leaving only narrow slits of yellow fire, like real lanterns. Finally, he purred like a real cat, only very low, so low it seemed that the bones in her leg resonated with a fine vibration. The girl put her hand down on the beast's withers, and the shudder passed all over her hand. Lena felt like she had two days ago when the word "Riadag" had knocked vague images into her memory. Something was happening now, too, something very important. Only she had no way of knowing what it was.
In the meantime, the beast rolled over onto its side and extended its legs across the valley, releasing its claws, which made Lena flinch. It looked strange, as if a typical cat's plastic had been stretched over a completely different construction, and the movement still looked surprisingly natural and fluid. The "cat" finished stretching and then put his paws under his soft, naked belly, tightening and folding them like a spider. He transforms into a dense ball, covered in prickly fur, with only his head protruding. And he seemed to fall asleep.
After waiting a few minutes, Lena carefully moved the beast to the edge of the bed, against the wall. The hot body was much lighter than one would expect for its size. Then she lay down on her own, without undressing, without taking her hands off the warm beast. Memories of home, of family, of friends, of her former world still echoed in her heart with pain, but the sorcerous beast seemed to have blunted the razor-sharpness of her mental torment.
I'm here. I'm here now, the girl thought, and at that moment, she wasn't sure if the thought was entirely her own. It was as if someone had whispered in her ear and given the substance of the word. Genuine meaning and certainty.
I'm here, and so far, it's constant.
I am now, and it is equally constant.
She closed her eyes and, to the sound of the rain interspersed with the cries of the groggy revelers, clutching the hot body of the "cat" to her, began to remember everything Grandpa had told her about medicine.
* * *
The amber liquid in the bottle was very volatile and narcotic when its vapors were inhaled. Especially for this purpose, the bottle had a long, slightly curved neck, which was convenient to insert into the nose. One could also follow the example of the saloon sybarites, drop it on a handkerchief, and gracefully wave it around. But in the Wastelands, people were simple and seldom inclined to aesthetic complication of essences. Here liquid "amber" was often drunk very quickly before the ethereal quintessence of dope dissolved in the air. And be sure to drink it with cold water so the liquid coat the stomach. It was a dangerous thing to do a poorly purified elixir could easily give a daredevil a lifelong tummy ache. The elixir could burn through the wall of the stomach and give a quick but painful death.
However, Venerable Gee's product was always good. Always safe.
The water in the tub cooled off, and the foreman only wiped himself with a wet towel. His muscles ached, but it was a pleasant pain, like after hard work. It did not exhaust you but strengthened the body, rushing blood through the veins and giving joy.
The bottle contained a dose for three, but Santelli gave it to his brothers, sparing himself. The "amber" worked very quickly, and the two beautiful naked bodies were spread out picturesquely on the bed. The brigadier stood silently by the window behind which the elements were raging. He did not want to leave. As always, however, he did not want to leave. It was nice here, clean and cozy. This room was always waiting for him, and though Santelli was well aware that it was (if you dissected feelings to their pure, natural base) just a well-disguised call of greed, it was enough for him. The brigadier had learned too long ago and too well that life was stingy with good things, and even a good illusion of anything was better than nothing at all.
It was always hard to leave here. And today, especially.
Sighing heavily, just like Venerable Gee did the last time, Santelli got dressed. The young men were not awake. Their deep, unnatural sleep, full of wonderful dreams, promised to last until morning.
"I once had a real mentor. A very wise, worthy man," Santelli said quietly, smoothing his still-damp hair. "And one day I asked him, 'What is true love?"
"He thought for a long time and finally answered me that real, not ostentatious intimate feeling is always sacrificial. True love is not in a hurry to take but is always ready to give. We are willing to forgive the one we love... ...or those we love, for an insult, a lie... an unkind word behind our backs. Even if the words turn out to be real trouble. But that is the nature of true feeling. It is only in the voluntary sacrifice that feelings are complete and perfect."
Santelli fastened his belt, knotted the loose end with a bronze corner, and adjusted his scabbard and dagger. He looked at the young man. If anyone in his brigade had seen it now, he would have thought for sure he had been replaced by a shapeshifter. There was an ocean of pain in Santelli's eyes, normally cold-attentive and wolfishly dangerous. A genuine, grievous pain pierced the very soul.
"And today I asked myself - is my love for you true? Am I ready to make the sacrifice?"
The brigadier cut the sentence short and was silent for a while. He looked for a long time out the window, behind which the elements were raging, painting the city in all shades of dark blue and black.
I was honest with myself as if Pantocrator were listening to my answer. It was hard, but I asked honestly. And I answered.
Pain and, it seemed, life was leaving Santelli's dark pupils. All that remained was coldness and dead calm. The brigadier walked over to the bed and looked at the lovers, whose blond hair mingled like streams of silver springs. One was smiling serenely in narcotic oblivion, bright blue eyes gleaming through slightly open eyelids. The other, on the contrary, pursed scarlet, swollen lips, which had always delighted the Santels with their smooth, clear lines. It was as if, even in his sleep, the young man was depressed by some hidden sadness.
"Is my love sacrificial?" Santelli repeated the earlier question to himself. "Is it true?"
The brigadier picked up the axe and weighed it in his hand as if he holding it for the first time. And he answered himself.
"No."
The beats were very distinctive, almost imperceptible amidst the noisy merriment that gripped the Heterion at midnight. But Gee's keen ear easily distinguished them from the clinking of bottles, the groggy cries, and the greedy laughter. Just two, short and resounding, as if a woodcutter's axe had struck the soft pillow, shredding both it and the dense, stringy wood of the deck beneath the pillow. The Venerable One grimaced bitterly, pursed his lips, and squinted at the ceiling. He sighed sadly and passed the rosary between his fingers, calculating how much Santelli now owed him.
* * *