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On the second Friday of the month of nine, in the eve at eight hours past noon, the Larch may commence. After Ashes have given themselves over to the pursuit of Larchers, they can assume their roles and enter the Wyldan Woods upon hearing the pistol. Once all Ashes enter the woods, Larchers are to wait until the pistol fires again, a passing of five minutes. Carried with each Larcher is his botanical gift to his chosen Ash. May she receive it with kindness and know what it is to be hunted by someone keen to impart their botanical wisdom onto another. No words are spoken, nor written. The Larch is a silent, sacred ritual where the trees are the true gods, and among their screams may we be blessed.

What the fuck? This sounds like some B-grade horror-movie subplot bullshit.

“How long ago did you say this secret society sex-fest started? Are we talking Otto Wyldan out here in the 1800s with a blunderbuss and blue balls?”

Tali’s face breaks into a grin. “You have a way with words, Pen. I’ll give you that. And as far as tradition? I’ve got no idea. The way it’s spoken with whispered suggestions rather than stated facts, I’m tipping it’s more myth and legend than lore. I could ask Professor Wyldan for you…”

Ask the professor? If only she could manage that. In his presence, I can’t manage a cohesive thought, let alone a conversation. Although, the lodgepole cone was a new unlocked kink. “Please do. I’m interested in hearing the origin of the Larch.”

She looks like I’ve just arranged their marriage. Chest out and proud, she’s even standing taller, with fierce determination swathed across her freckled face. “Do you think it might have something to do with your dad’s disappearance?”

The thought has crossed my mind more than once before. But the idea of my father chasing college girls into the woods to—well, let’s not go too in depth with what Larchers do in those woods. Back then, he was enamored with my mother. I can remember his recount of the time he first saw her and knew he had found his sole purpose for existing. Without saying a single word, they looked up, sensing the other. An unmistakable pull, a need to get closer. Only he was a lecturer—her lecturer. To other students and faculty, Arthur and Aster were mentor and scholar. To each other, they were kindred. Trees do scream. Not like humans might from pain or fear, but they emit an ultrasonic, high frequency popping or clicking to indicate they’re under stress.

Come join us; Among the Screaming Trees was the feature line heading for the Larch. The intriguing A3 posters were pinned to student billboards and stuck with duct tape to a light pole outside the cafeteria.

“It has to be considered. Everything is on the table until Dad is found, so while something might seem unconnected, I refuse to rule anything out.”

Tali nods, her gaze pensive. When she woke up after her beer and pizza party, her head was hazy. Rather than fill in with meticulous detail everything we had discussed, I opted to remind her that my dad had gone missing six years ago, and I know it has something to do with his latest field studies. While other Ashes might run through the woods to escape Larchers, I will be searching for clues. Why Wyldan? Of all the colleges to offer a scholarship, why this one, and why me? My surname in Fort Collins entitled me to side-eye stares and ridicule. Aspen Aldereyne practically screamed discredited, drunk descendant, and that followed me like a creeping vine reaching tendrils around me to pull me down. None of it worked. The student’s insults were unoriginal and bland, at best. At least the teaching staff offered a brief insight.

“Ah, Ms. Aldereyne, so good of you to join us, notwithstanding the call of those screaming trees. Were you busy discovering a new genus to present to us, or hiding away like your daddy?” On and on it continued. The Wyldan offer wasn’t just a consideration, but a lifeline. How did traveling three thousand miles bring me closer to the memory of my parents, when they met in Colorado and raised me there? It’s as confusing as it is confronting, not to mention two of my lecturers engaging with me inside of two weeks. Jay, granted, had no clue I was one of his students, but ever since our hookup and his proclamation after first class, my mind is a mess of brambles trying to unpack why the student-teacher trope is playing out again.

My watch trips ever closer to eight hours past noon on the first Friday of the month of nine; my gut somersaults a raft of bile and nervous vomit desperate to be expelled. I’m not nervous by nature, but the stress chemicals coursing through my veins are heightening every sense and threat response. This must be what they are seeking. Near silent wolves tracking an arctic hare, only I’m the prey. Tali bounces from foot to foot, the laces of her Converse double-knotted. Converse is an odd choice for the Wyldan Woods, where pine needles blanket the ground in a russet carpet. She’s opted for speed, while I chose the sturdy and stable route: lightweight hiking boots. The molded soles offer a reprieve from the needles and other leaf litter that may become slippery. How far are we supposed to go? The woods stretch for miles, becoming thicker and darker closer to the south and east borders, extending toward the Yukon. Venture too far into the subarctic region and you face the Saint Elias Mountains. Should I tear off at a cracking sprint, it serves no purpose other than to outrun every Larcher and end up getting lost. While there are protections in place for wildlife like grizzly and black bears and gray wolves, the posters didn’t state what those protections were. Cool marketing concept. Let your base believe the biggest threat is a hunting Larcher. Got it.

“What’s stopping an Ash from taking ten steps into the woods and stopping?” I ask Tali, but Merda answers.

“Nothing, but that screams lazy and scared, and every single Larcher will pass you by on their quest for a proper hunt. Are you lazy and scared, Aspen?”

“Never,” I state, and I mean every word. Plus, there are Tali’s words from the day we met, that Merda received multiple gifts from multiple Larchers, and it took her months to work out who they were. Stopping by the nearest Larix or Pinea is bound to be a black mark, and everyone would know me as Aspen Aldereyne, lazy, scared, and desperate. While my core is aching with anticipation of a primal chase, I remember Lukaz stating that he’d warn us what botanical Finley has. I retrieve my phone from the pocket of my yoga pants. Nothing. Fuck!

7:59 p.m., and a speaker crackles to life. I can’t see it, but the tinny sound carries from the forest toward the back field of Wyldan U.

“Ashes. Prepare yourselves for the Larch. May your adventures be swift and sure. Assembled behind you are your Larchers. They will hunt you down when the hour strikes eight.”

All Ashes turn as one. Beyond the sporting field, up the stairs and lined up on the common concourse, is a wall of black-masked Larchers. They stand shoulder to shoulder, each dressed in variations of head-to-toe black, with some in jeans and others in sweatpants. All the masks are similar, depicting skeleton forms and steam-punk gas masks. There is no way to tell the identity of anyone. Other than variations in height, build mass is taken out of the equation with bulky hoodies. Holy shit, my heart rate has just rocketed up the nearest sequoia.

“Ashes—come join us on a primal hunt, to bring you to your knees.

A botanical gift, to settle your nerves, Among the Screaming Trees. Run!”

I take off at a flat sprint, knees working to move past girls intent on loitering or talking with friends in breach of the silent stipulation. Tali’s red-and-white jacket is just visible through the mass of bodies and blackened trunks. She slows to look over her shoulder, and her eyes find mine. A smile ghosts her face before it’s gone again, her arms pumping as she works her body to propel her forward. I follow as close as I dare, and a little off to the right. We agreed not to be on the edge of the Ash mass, nor dead center. We’re just making up numbers, but I want to be caught. Not near the entrance to the woods like a fucking loser; I’m going to make them work for it. You want me? Come fucking hunt me.

My feet thunder over the dirt and leaves, in between trees and skirting fallen logs. I can’t see any red or white. Tali is gone. My heartbeat echoes behind the bony cage, a syncopated rhythm pulsing in time with my exhales. Blood whooshes in my ears, and still I press on, fingers of branches reaching for me as I pass. Even as I tire, I move forward to grasp at juvenile poplar trunks. Crouching behind a Sitka spruce, I trap my breath, desperate for a noise other than my own. Heavy footsteps eddy between worn paths and handholds. They’re coming. The sound of a shrill giggle pierces the wood’s evening noise, followed by a deep, guttural moan. I guess the forest fuckfest has begun. I peer around the towering spruce, and my breath freezes. Three Larchers about one hundred feet away are headed in my direction. A ragged pant threatens to escape. I close my mouth around nothing and push on. No lodgepole cone required, and my thighs are already sticky. I lie, telling myself it’s only perspiration from the effort required to traverse these woods alone, at night. Only I’m not alone—I’m being hunted.

Sliding behind another Sitka spruce, then another, I lean my forehead against the tree to catch my breath. I don’t dare check my watch for how long I’ve run for, for risk of the glowing display alerting any nearby Larchers of my presence. The three-quarter moon provides diffused illumination to navigate by, but not enough to make out finer details. I gulp in the cool air, slowing my respiration rate and wondering how humiliating it would be to return to the campus with no Larch gift. On some occasions, Ashes must outnumber Larchers, thus leaving some Ashes without a gift. That’s not so bad. While there is no botanical to identify, hoping to reveal your Larcher, it could allow me more time to focus on my research. A twig snapping to the right makes my head jerk up toward the gnarled nothingness. Two, three, four beats pass with no more sound, so I push off the Sitka and spin into a hard packed wall of molten, masculine muscle. I bounce back with an ooft, and into the spruce, but before I can sidestep, two massive arms wrap around me and lift me off my feet. The urge to scream is intense; my feet kick out on instinct, collecting with a shin bone. The Larcher growls long and low, his unyielding hold enough to warn me against kicking out again. With a handful of strides, I’m deposited at the base of what I think is a Cottonwood, but I don’t have time to be sure. Two other Larchers appear from the opposite direction, both tall and broad shouldered, the black uniforms straining under working muscles. Now I understand the stipulation of silence. Distinct voices would be recognized out here in the eerie quiet. Adhering to quiet only aids the Larchers’ anonymity, although the masks give nothing away, and one has gloves on.

One steps forward, cloaked in a generic scent. Like whoever this is opted away from cologne and relied on soap or body wash. This could be anyone. The mask is a kind of organic skeleton face, more sepia-toned than the typical black and white cartoon depiction. Instead of elongated oval sockets where eyeballs would nestle, the shapes are cordate and… no fucking way. One eye is a cordate leaf, like a Hoya or Anthurium, and the other is a pinecone! The second I think the ruse is up and I’m sure it’s Elijah Wyldan, I look at the other two Larchers in identical masks. The pinecones aren’t unique; they are on all three masks, wait—make that four. Beyond the two in front of me, another approaches and settles against the trunk of a Black Spruce about twenty feet away. Four! Oh my fucking God. Arousal isn’t pooling, it’s gushing.

Two stand guard in front of me, a garrison of strength and fortitude. Another stalks around me, his boots crunching needles and leaves as he prowls. The only sounds are distant wolf howls and exhaled breaths. Theirs, mine, all intermingle into veils of fine vapor as our lungs heave. A tentative, curled hand skims my cheek. Instinct tells me to turn away, but the featherlight touch, sweeping errant strands of my blonde and rose-gold hair away, has me turning toward the gesture.

He hums, tugging me upright in the next second. With my back to the tree and the Larcher at my front, I’m powerless to move, nor do I want to. What was it that Lukaz said? Not for all the leaves on all the trees? Wait, Lukaz must be out here. Is this him? Or one of the other three? Or has he sought Merda or another Ash?

An erection strains against his stretched denim. He lowers his lips to mine, the mask allowing his soft, full lips to meet mine, and oh my God, he is a good kisser. With a hand behind my head, he angles me just where he wants me, my throat open and exposed. He growls hungrily into the kiss, his tongue dancing for dominance with my own. I can’t quite place his smell, but I’m sure I know it. The other two Larchers step in beside the first, all three of them dominating my limited vision and even tighter space. Hands land on my breasts, another palms my ass so tightly it will bruise, just the way I like it. My core sends another flood of arousal south as I try—and fail—to squeeze my thighs together.

I claw at forearms covered by heavy sleeves, not to fight, but for purchase. I’m overpowered by sensation—three virile predators toying with their prize—and another rush of fluid dampens my underwear. As if on cue, one sinks to his knees and tugs at my yoga pants. They give with little resistance, sliding down my slicked skin. He sniffs the perfume of my arousal. I’m lost in another kiss, this one hungrier. There is no buildup, no preamble, just taking what he wants: my mouth. My hand is guided to another pair of tented jeans just as the first lick swipes up my cleft, and I almost shriek.

It’s sensational overload, and I’m drowning. The Larcher on his knees quickens the pace, adding two fingers into the mix. Nothing I can think of sets these fingers apart from any other. Are they wider or longer? I don’t fucking know! The light is so dim, it’s impossible to make out any determining features. Nail beds… they look like clean, manicured hands. Not chewed or harboring dirt underneath. The cry ready to escape is swallowed down by his skilled mouth, his hands in my hair and on one breast, while the other Larcher lifts my sweatshirt and the lace cup of my bra. His fingers find the stiffened peaks, plucking and pinching one nipple first, and then the other. My hand is guided under the waistband of dark briefs, to free an erection so hard and heavy, it must be painful to have so much blood focused there. If I embrace my ‘women in STEM’ role, I’d be concerned about his circulatory blood volume until his cock flexes in my hand, the veins bulging under my touch. He’s fine.

His moan is guttural, covering my hand with his. He squeezes first, then drags my palm along his length, using his pre-cum as lube. The act is lewd and lascivious, the friction of my palm under his making the most delicious music to accompany each tongue swipe around my clit. Three Larchers lavishing attention on me and demanding mine. No, four Larchers. One is still leaning against a trunk, with his ankles crossed over each other, smoking. Content to watch—for now. My orgasm builds like a wave, cutting through the muted sounds of evening with our own organic pleasuring. Around liquid kisses to weaken my knees, through the rolling tugs on each nipple and my threatening climax as my hand strokes the hardest cock I’ve ever felt. This primal hunt has awakened all of us to a need unlike any other. I come with a swallowed yelp, moments before my hand is coated in the release of a Larcher. With his head thrown back and throat vibrating around his groan, he’s as lost to the climax as I am. My thighs quake with intense tremors, no doubt brought on by the orgasm coaxed out of me, and the pleasure I provided others. The Larcher who just came on my hand tucks his spent dick into his pants once he’s come down from his high. The one on his knees whose tongue and fingers had me seeing stars stands with the slowness of a sloth, taking in every inch of me with eyes hidden behind that organic skeleton mask. The two men stare at each other, communicating without moving or speaking. A telekinesis of sorts? Either way, my mind is still fighting through the post-orgasm delirium.