Free Finale by Becca Fitzpatrick

inadequate for the way I felt about him. And at the same time, so simple and accurate, nothing
else would do.
    No regrets, Angel.
    None,
I returned solemnly.
    The bartender finished up with a customer and walked over to take Patch’s order. His eyes raked over Patch, and by the scowl that immediately appeared on his face, it was obvious
he’d discerned that Patch was a fallen angel. “What’ll it be?” he asked, his tone clipped, as he wiped his hands on a dish towel.
    Patch slurred in an unmistakably inebriated voice, “One beautiful redhead, preferably tall and slim, with legs a man can’t seem to find the end of.” He traced his finger down
my cheekbone, and I tensed and pulled away.
    “Not interested,” I said, taking a sip of Sprite and keeping my eyes steadfastly on the mirrored wall behind the bar. I let just enough anxiety leak into my words to pique the
bartender’s attention.
    He leaned across the bar, resting his massive forearms on the slab of granite, and stared Patch down. “Next time review the menu before you waste my time. We don’t offer
disinterested females, red hair or otherwise.” He paused with menacing effect, then started toward the next waiting customer.
    “And if she’s Nephilim, all the better,” Patch announced drunkenly.
    The bartender stopped, eyes glittering with malice. “Mind keeping your voice down, pal? We’re in mixed company. This place is open to humans, too.”
    Patch brushed this off with an uncoordinated wave of his arm. “Sweet of you to worry about the humans, but one quick mind-trick later, and they won’t remember a word I’ve said.
Done the trick so many times I can do it in my sleep,” he said, letting a bit of swagger creep into his tone.
    “You want this lowlife gone?” the bartender asked me. “Say the word and I’ll get the bouncer.”
    “I appreciate the offer, but I can handle myself,” I told him. “You’ll have to excuse my ex for being a total jerk-off.”
    Patch laughed. “Jerk-off? That’s not what you called me last time we were together,” 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