Free Finale by Becca Fitzpatrick Page A

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 over.
One of the Nephilim
from the cabin. He’s here! He’s just inside the doorway, wearing a red-and-black flannel shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots.
    I waited, but there was no response.
    Patch!
I tried again, using all the mental power I possessed. I couldn’t follow him outside—not if I wanted to keep my cover.
    Vee appeared at my side. “What’s going on here? Everyone’s talking about a fight. I can’t believe I missed it. Did you see any of it?”
    I pulled her aside. “I need you to do something for me. See the guy just inside the doors, in the hick flannel shirt? I need you to find out his name.”
    Vee frowned. “What’s this all about?”
    “I’ll explain later. Flirt, steal his wallet, whatever it takes. Just don’t mention my name, okay?”
    “If I do this, I want a favor in return. A double date. You and your whack-job boyfriend, and me and Scott.”
    With no time to explain that Patch and I were finished, I said, “
Yes.
Now hurry before we lose him in the crowd.”
    Vee cracked her knuckles and sashayed off. I didn’t hang around to see how she fared. I threaded my way through the crowd, ducking out the back door and jogging to the top of the alley. I
rounded the building, looking both ways for Patch.
    Patch!
I cried out to the shadows.
    Angel? What are you doing? It’s not safe for us to be seen together.
    I spun around, but Patch wasn’t there.
Where are you?
    Across the street. In the van.
    I looked across the street, and sure enough, there was a rusty brown Chevy van parked at the curb. It blended into the backdrop of dilapidated buildings. The windows were tinted, shielding the
inner cab from prying eyes.
    One of the Nephilim from the cabin is inside the Devil’s Handbag!
    A thick beat of silence.
    Did he see the fight?
Patch asked after a moment.
    Yes .
    What does he look like?
    He’s wearing a black-and-red flannel shirt and cowboy boots.
    Get