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My heart misses several beats. Where have I heard that name before? The botanical name for larch trees is Larix, a member of the pine family. In botanical terminology, though, one would talk about a larch tree or a group of them, not use the name as a noun. “The Larch?” My throat bobs on the question. Something flutters in my subconscious, both seeking an explanation and not wanting to know.

“The Larch. It’s a tradition going back decades. Botanical science students head out into the woods. They are called the Ashes. Then masked Larchers chase them down. Aa a hunt.”

I swallow again. Primal play? A hunt for prey? I clamp my thighs together as she continues.

“Larchers carry with them a biological calling card unique to themselves. Once they find their desired Ash, they present them with the item. She, or he, then has the rest of the year to work out who their Larcher was, based on their biological item. Some are lazy, like Rohan Gomfrey turned up with an onion. Like, dude, no! Apparently he was supposed to carry comfrey leaves but forgot. In his panic to participate, he took an onion from his parents’ pantry. What a fucking loser.”

“So, Ashes are unmasked?”

“That’s right. You and I are Ashes. We just take off through the forest and hope for a Larcher to find us with a calling card that isn’t an onion or something lazy. Merda Ferado received three Larch gifts last year, and it took her most of the year to work out who her Larchers were. I think one of them gave up in the end and just blurted it out. Takes half the fun away, I guess.”

“When these masked Larchers find you, what do they do to you? With you, I mean?”

Her eyes dance with a mischief I haven’t seen yet. Does Tali have a kinky side?

“Whatever you want them to. No one speaks. But actions are not only permissible, they are encouraged. I gave my Larcher an enthusiastic blow job last year because all the dopamine and adrenaline raging through me from the idea of being hunted was an immense turn on. We get hot and sweaty; they get hot and sweaty. You catch my drift?” Her eyebrows rise and plummet. “I was gagging for it. Turns out my Larcher couldn’t get me off. Pity.”

Tali continues to stack books on the shelf. When one fills, she crawls to the other end and begins again on the higher one.

“But you know who this dude was, right? Your Larch gift, did you work out who it was?”

She exhales a long, slow breath. “Yeah, I did. His name is Paul Sorrington. He dropped out at the end of last year, which I guess was a good thing.”

“And his calling card?”

“Gum nuts. Eucalyptus macrocarpa. He busted a nut, and I never came!” she roars.

“How… deflating,” I agree, watching her face burst with color. She looks like fun. I had been worried about the living arrangements; seems I needn’t have bothered.

She waves a hand dismissively. “It wasn’t a big deal. I’m kind of glad in some ways. But the Larch is almost a rite of passage. It’s steeped in some secret lore that no one really speaks about.”

The Larch, as masked Larchers sprint through the forest in pursuit of an Ash. The details pull on tiny threads on the periphery of my memory. So much information dwells on the fringe of relevance. Hovering in an inky blur at the furthest recess of my mind. It’s part of why I’m here: for answers. Tali knows I accepted a scholarship to Wyldan University, but what she doesn’t comprehend yet is why. Why I, as a twenty-two-year-old Colorado native, gave up an ordinary life studying botany near the mountains of my family home. Why I flew thousands of miles north to unlock the mysteries surrounding my deceased mother and missing father. She may not know yet, but alas, neither do I. The Larch might be the beginning of the fraying threads connecting me to the fate of my parents. With one gone, and the other missing, Wyldan is the last hope I have, and I’ll hold on to that with both hands.

Chapter Four

Aspen

SUGAR MAPLE (ACER SACCHARUM)

Wyldan University’s campus blends old-world architecture with modern buildings that have appeared in various locations, indicating the institution is expanding its student body, unlike many others in North America. Federation buildings nestle together in rows around a courtyard featuring a clump of enormous redwoods, the sequoias’ height alone suggesting they are centuries old. The tour stated they were planted by Otto Wyldan himself, so taken was he with the giants of the forest that he dug up saplings and transported them here. Typical rich guy mentality. Find what’s missing from your desired location, then dig it out and relocate it as you please.

The quad is filled with a hive of buzzing scholars, most talking in small groups before classes start. Some sip from vibrant paper cups of coffee that don’t advertise their inferior-quality franchise beans. I make a mental note to try it out once I’ve had more time to orient myself with the sprawling campus and all the secret passageways, darkened pathways, and library stacks.

Tali walks beside me, her arm nudging mine as she sips from her coffee cup, stainless steel with floral motifs on the outside. Who knew she had a coffee machine packed away in one box? Not me, but my surprise morphed into joy as the realization that we would have freshly ground coffee every morning. That joy turned to despair when I tasted the beans, which I suspect may have been packed in a container far from airtight since she moved dorms last year. It wasn’t all doom and gloom, though; I opted for an Irish breakfast tea.

We continue further along the cobbled path to a double-story building straight out of a fairytale. The brick building, with its gabled, shingled roof sections, is hemmed in by decorative and functional turrets. It’s a stunning piece of history, and our location for our first class, Plant Systematics with JABO, the code utilizing the first two letters of first and surname as the lecturer identifier.

Tali thrums with an energy that isn’t nervous, nor excited. It borders on a sexual haze. That’s right, JABO is the Dr. Bonner she’s so obsessed with. Perhaps Bonner is Jared or Jason? How did she describe him again? Molten? She continues up the steps, waiting for a group ahead of us to proceed through the doors before we can do the same. The inside is nothing like I expected. I had envisaged a grand staircase welcoming guests from a parlor entry to another level of accommodation. If it was built that way, a refurbishment would turn the interior into large, bright rooms with rows of student seating. BS07 is the last door on the right on the lower level. Tali introduces me to other students as we file into the room, and I look around at the displays of framed specimens and vases of cut stems. Dr. Bonner stands at the front of the room, frantically scribbling something almost illegible onto the board. Half of his chestnut hair is pulled up into a crude bun at his crown, the remainder of his locks falling loose around his shoulders. Shoulders achingly familiar because I sank my teeth into them three nights ago. All the air leaves my lungs in a long whoosh the moment he turns around and those dark, chocolate eyes find mine. His realization hits as soon as I notice the scribble on the board states Dr. Jackson Bonner. Call me Jack, Jackson, or Doc. Holy fuck; Jay was short for Jackson.

He runs a hand through his half-up, half-down masculine hairstyle favored by winged fae and hipster baristas alike. He blinks once, twice, as if not trusting what he’s focusing on. You should, Doc, it’s me. Surprise! I struggle to swallow and almost collide with Tali, who is surveying the available seating for the best possible vantage point. I grab her arm and tug her to the back row before selecting the corner seat.

“What the fuck? We’re so far away,” she moans. Trust me, Talia. We are not far enough.

“This position is perfect,” I announce, gesturing to the room in front of us. “We can see the bigger picture. We won’t miss out on anything happening behind us.”

“Makes sense,” she grumbles, unzipping her bag and pulling out her laptop. Doctor Jack resumes his scribbling on the board, turning periodically to address entering students and sneaking another glance in our direction.

“See what I mean about him being smokin’ hot.” She smiles, watching me unpack my laptop.