Page 2 of The Hallows Queen

Chapter1

Penelope

earlier that day

I’m chompingmy jaw like a cow in a fresh pasture of grass after a 10-day juice cleanse. The guy sitting to my left on my flight from Washington to North Carolina keeps looking at me out the corner of his eye, probably trying not to make it obvious that I’m bothering him, but he’sdefinitelywondering why I’m chewing my gum like it’s offended me and tapping my fingers on my knees.

Listen, I get it, they banned smoking on airplanes for good reason, the main one being that most of an aircraft is flammable as hell. I don’t want to be stuck in a metal tube on fire at 30,000 feet as much as the next girl, but if I don’t smoke a cigarette soon, I’m going to need to start pacing the aisles or something, which will probably make some people nervous.

This nicotine gum is doing absolutely nothing.

Likely because it isn’t the nicotine I’m craving – I mean, that’s probably part of it – but it’s the habit that I’m needing more than anything. It’s the weirdly likable sickly feeling that accompanies smoking a cigarette, the lightness to my head, and dissolution to my anxiety. I just want my vice, my go-to when I’m feeling like this. I can’t blame addiction on what I’m feeling right now, because I promised I would stop lying to myself a long time ago.I’m fucking anxious about moving home to Luxington.

After four years at the University of Washington, I’m heading home to the beach town I grew up in on the East Coast.

How I successfully managed to get onto the plane without six shots of Jack Daniels is a mystery, but my closest friend, Katie, told me it was too early to get shitfaced, even if I am riding a downward spiral.

My dad is sick – like, he’ssick-sick. Living-in-the-hospital-sick.

And I need to be there for however long he’s got left. So, over the last month, I’ve checked all the boxes on mymovingto-do list.Find apartment, ship car, secure job, say goodbye to the Pacific Northwest, send everything I own in a truck.

My jaw starts to ache from the flavorless gum in my mouth, and the guy next to me is full-on staring now, turning his body and everything, so I make the executive decision to head for the bathroom.

I bought one of those bullshit e-cigarettes at the gas station this morning, which also isn’t allowed on airplanes, butfuck it, no one will find out.

I tap my best friend’s knee, pulling her attention and waving my hand. “Gotta pee.”

Katie has been sucked into some movie for the entire flight, probably trying to tune out the intensely negative energy I’m radiating in every direction.

She nods, twisting her knees to the side as I stand up to let me shimmy past her.

With my bag in hand, I try to look as normal as possible as I head toward the back of the plane, which is impossible when you’retryingto look normal, so I’m sure I look like I’ve got a secret.

I realize as I’m sliding into the tiny, unoccupied bathroom that I’ve been holding my breath and clenching every muscle in my body, so once I’m inside and the door is locked, I slump against the sink and exhale painfully.

Staring at myself in the mirror, I count to ten, my makeup-free face relaxing with every increasing number. When I reach ten, I put my purse in the sink and dig around for the little cardboard package that holds the e-cig.

Ripping it open, I examine the small silver cylinder, rolling it over in my hand a few times. I chose something called “Vanilla Sensation,” which sounded more appealing than the fruity flavors sharing the shelf with it. It seems simple enough, put the end in between my lips and suck – it’s a cigarette designed for teenagers so how complicated can it really be?

I press the plastic tip to my lips, leaning for the toilet with the idea that I can blow the smoke into the bowl, then flush it away. And I suck.

The sharp vaporized air or whatever they put in these things hits my throat and lungs like shards of razor blades, making me cough loud and hard. I try to aim for the toilet, but I’m in such a chaotic headspace that the smoke ends up filling the small bathroom.

“Fuck.” Waving my hands around the room in a panic, I continue to cough.

I spit into the toilet, sending my gum to its death as well as the bizarre taste of vanilla attacking my senses, then I flush.

Shaking my head, I laugh.

“This is pathetic.” I chuckle to myself.

I stare at the e-cig while I swallow down the lingering tickle in my throat, then try again. It doesn’t hurt as much this time, so I hit it for longer, which is a monumentally horrible idea because when I blow out the smoke, it completely fills the bathroom.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck.” I wave my hands around like mad, trying to push the smoke into the toilet, which is impossible, and end up sending the e-cig flying through the air until it hits the floor with a loud clang.

This was a stupid idea. That much is clear to me now.

“God, please don’t let the smoke alarm go off,” I pray under my breath, flushing the toilet before I reach around on the floor to pick up the e-cig.

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