Free Finale by Becca Fitzpatrick Page A

he implied suggestively.
    I just stared at him, disgusted.
    “She wasn’t always Nephilim, you know,” Patch informed the bartender with wistful nostalgia. “Maybe you’ve heard of her. The Black Hand’s heir. Liked her better when she was human, but there’s a certain cachet in running around with the most famous Nephil on Earth.”
    The bartender eyed me speculatively. “You’re the Black Hand’s kid?”
    I glared at Patch. “Thanks for that.”
    “Is it true the Black Hand is dead?” the bartender asked. “Can’t hardly comprehend it. A great man, rest his soul. My respects to your family.” He paused, bewildered. “But dead as in . . .
dead
?”
    “Word has it,” I murmured quietly. I couldn’t quite bring myself to shed a tear for Hank, but I did speak with a melancholic reverence that seemed to satisfy the bartender.
    “A free round of drinks to the fallen angel who got him,” Patch interrupted, raising my glass in a toast. “I think we can all agree that’s what happened.
Immortal
just doesn’t have the same ring anymore.” He laughed, banging his fist on the bar in high spirits.
    “And you used to date this pig?” the bartender asked me.
    I flicked my eyes to Patch and frowned. “A repressed memory.”
    “You know he’s a”—the bartender lowered his voice—“fallen angel, right?”
    Another sip and a hard swallow. “Don’t remind me. I’ve made amends—my new boyfriend is Dante Matterazzi, one hundred percent Nephilim. Maybe you’ve heard of him?” No time like the present to start a rumor.
    His eyes lit up, impressed. “Sure, sure. Great guy. Everyone knows Dante.”
    Patch closed his hand over my wrist too firmly to be affectionate. “She’s got it all wrong. We’re still together. What do you say we get out of here, sugar?”
    I jumped at his touch, as if shocked. “Get your hands off me.”
    “I’ve got my bike out back. Let me take you for a ride. For old time’s sake.” He stood, then dragged me off my barstool so roughly it toppled.
    “Get the bouncer,” I ordered the bartender, letting full-fledged anxiety flood my voice.
“Now.”
    Patch hauled me toward the front doors, and while I put on a convincing show of trying to wrench free, I knew the worst was still to come.
    The club’s bouncer, a Nephil who had the advantage not only of several inches over Patch, but also a hundred pounds, elbowed his way toward us. He grabbed Patch by the collar, tearing him off me and sending him flying into the wall. Serpentine had worked up to a fever pitch, drowning out the scuffle, but those in the immediate vicinity parted, forming a semicircle of curious onlookers around the two men.
    Patch raised his hands level with his shoulders. He flashed a brief, intoxicated smile. “I don’t want any trouble.”
    “Too late,” the bouncer said, and smashed his fist into Patch’s face. The skin above Patch’s eyebrow split, seeping blood, and I forced myself not to wince or reach for him.
    The bouncer jerked his head at the doors. “If you ever show your face here again, you and trouble gonna be fast friends. You understand?”
    Patch stumbled toward the door, giving a sloppy salute to the bouncer. “Aye, aye, sir.”
    The bouncer planted his foot in the crook of Patch’s knee, sending him tripping down the cement stoop. “Would you look at that. My foot slipped.”
    A man just inside the door laughed, low and harsh, and the sound snatched my attention. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard the laugh. When I was human, I wouldn’t have recognized it, but all my senses were heightened now. I squinted through the darkness, trying to match the rankling laugh to a face.
    There.
    Cowboy Hat. He wasn’t wearing a hat or sunglasses tonight, but I could place those hunched shoulders and that caustic smile anywhere.
    Patch!
I shouted, unable to see whether he was still within hearing range as the crowd closed around me, filling in the empty spaces now that the fight was