The Lodge was a rustic mansion made of cedar and stone, separated from the main house by a mile of forest. Jane approached from the downwind side. The lights were blazing.
She crept to the window. Inside, the den was a mess. Trophies of dead animals stared from the walls-deer, elk, a bear. Kolby stood in the center of the room. He was holding a compound bow, wiping it down with a rag. A bottle of expensive whiskey sat open on the table next to lines of white powder.
He was talking to himself, his movements jerky and erratic. He was already high.
Jane circled to the back. The servant's entrance was unlocked. It always was. The staff knew better than to lock Kolby in when he was on a bender; they wanted him to be able to stumble out if he set the place on fire.
She slipped into the kitchen. The air smelled of stale cigar smoke and spilled alcohol. Kolby's silver flask sat on the granite island.
Jane moved fast. She pulled the packet from her sleeve. She unscrewed the cap of the flask and dumped the powder in. She grabbed a bottle of bourbon from the counter, topped off the flask, and screwed the cap back on. She gave it a hard shake.
Heavy footsteps thumped on the hardwood floor.
Jane ducked into the pantry, pulling the door almost shut. She peered through the crack.
Kolby stumbled into the kitchen. He was shirtless now, sweating profusely.
"Alejandra!" he yelled. "Where the hell are you?"
He grabbed the flask from the counter. He unscrewed it and took a long, deep swig. He grimaced, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Stupid bitch," he muttered. He grabbed an apple from a bowl, took a bite, and spat it out.
He turned and walked back toward the den. "I'm gonna shoot something," he announced to the empty room.
Jane waited until she heard the screen door slam. She stepped out of the pantry.
The drug would take about twenty minutes to hit peak effectiveness. It would start with dizziness, then muscle weakness, then respiratory distress.
Jane walked into the den. On the wall rack, there was a recurve bow. It was lighter than the compound bow Kolby took, silent and deadly. In her previous life, Conrad Norman had insisted she learn archery. If you're going to live here, you'll learn to hunt, he had said. She had become a marksman to earn a scrap of affection that never came.
She took the bow. She grabbed a quiver of arrows. She tested the string. The tension was familiar. It felt like shaking hands with an old friend.
She strapped on a leather arm guard. She slipped out the back door, following the noise.
Kolby wasn't hard to track. He was crashing through the underbrush, shouting at trees.
"Come out, Bambi!" he yelled. He took another swig from the flask.
Jane kept her distance, moving tree to tree. She was a shadow. She was the darkness.
Kolby stopped in a small clearing. He swayed. He tried to nock an arrow, but his fingers were fumbling. He dropped the arrow.
"What the..." He stared at his hands. "Why are my hands numb?"
He fell to his knees. The bow clattered to the ground. He clutched his chest. "Heart... racing..."
The cocktail was working. His central nervous system was shutting down, confused by the conflicting signals of the stimulants and the depressants.
Jane stepped out from behind a massive oak tree. She stood twenty feet away. She raised the recurve bow. She drew the string back to her cheek, her form perfect.
The moonlight glinted off the broadhead arrow tip.
Kolby looked up. His eyes were wide, unfocused. He saw her.
The game had changed. The hunter was now the prey.
