Kya's Spring: The Genesis Chronicles, #4

By Ms. Tery

Armed with a wrench, duct tape, and a razor-sharp wit,  fifteen-year-old Kya Murphy is ready for anything. 

Or so she believes…

When a brawl at school leaves Kya in the middle of a magical battle with an eccentric businessman, hired goons, and a glowing book, she finds herself in a predicament where her trusty tools and witty remarks won't save her.

With her signature passion for life, Kya leaps at the opportunity to join 

Chloe James, Samaya Lewis, and Whitney Stone on their quest 

to save Willow Ridge from Cornelius Murdoch's tightening grasp. 

However, she soon discovers people are more complicated than her beloved cars.

Will Kya's impulsive decision to unlock magic powers and save her hometown

fire on all cylinders or crash and burn before it leaves the shop?

Find out in Kya's Spring the fourth book of The Genesis Chronicles.

**Strong language & moderate violence. Sensitive people strongly cautioned.**

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ms.Tery
• Release date: Sep 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215197516

Ms. Tery

Wife, mother, daughter, sister, storyteller & esoteric hermit. Working at the nexus of art and purpose to craft strong, authentic, characters and evocative experiences that endure.  I am a writer and this is my story.

Book preview

Ms. Tery

Kya’s Spring

Book four of The Genesis Chronicles

Copyright © 2022 by Ms. Tery

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Ms. Tery asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Ms. Tery has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

First edition

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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In memory of Michael Dean and Eunice Anne

Chapter 1

Blue lights.

Uggh. Here we go again with the blue lights.

Blinding red and blue lights ignited the early morning sky on my Saturday commute to the Bottoms. Woop woop. Patrol car number six chirped twice to pull me over along State Road 112.

They see me rolling. They hatin’. Hmm hmmm hmm hmm hmm hmm-hmm. As I hummed Chamillionaire’s Ridin’ Dirty, I eased off the road onto the gravelly shoulder. When the cop shut off his siren, I prepared to do battle with another one of Willow Ridge’s finest. I know the drill—radio off, hands on the steering wheel, license and registration…

C’mon… C’mon, who’ve I got this morning? I studied my rearview mirror and drummed on my steering wheel. Car number six… That’s Dixon, Garcia, or Clark. My eyes darted from the yellow and white bakery box on my passenger’s seat to my rearview mirror. My lips curled into a decidedly innocent smile when the cruiser door finally popped open. Officer John Johnny Dixon rolled himself from the driver’s side and lumbered toward my car. Time for my weekly tango with the Willow Ridge PD.

When the towering officer reached my car, he rapped on my window. Kya Nicole Murphy, what have I told you about driving without a license?

Not to, I admitted, biting my lower lip. But I’m on a mission and then I’ll go straight home.

Officer Dixon took off his hat, revealing a thinning mop of salt-and-pepper curls and a shiny brown scalp. "How many times have I told you and that brother of yours, ’til ya’ll turn sixteen and get a driver’s license, an adult has to accompany you when you’re operating a motor vehicle? And yes, that includes cars, motorcycles, trucks, vans, buses, RVs, and SUVs."

A million, I agreed, wrestling to suppress my smirk. "But honest to God, Officer Dixon, this time’s different. See, this time, I’m getting Tyson and I had to bring you something."

Bring me what?

Showtime. I traded my meek, innocent grin for my brazenly exuberant smile and shoved an insulated cup through my window. Now, Officer Dixon, I knew you’d be out here on this freezing February morning protecting the citizens of Willow Ridge, and I thought, self, Officer Dixon deserves breakfast, and since I’m out gettin’ some, why not share?

Kya—

See, this here’s a low-fat latté with almond milk and organic sugar-free vanilla, ’cause I know Dorothea’s got you on a diet. And these are some fresh-baked muffins from Miranda’s, including four of the carrot cake, which I know are your favorite, I added, grabbing the yellow and white box from the passenger’s seat and opening it near the window.

Officer Dixon shook his head and sipped his latté. Child, this could be considered bribery.

Only if you don’t destroy the evidence. I insisted as he took a muffin. I won’t tell if you don’t.

Dorothea’s carb-starved husband savored the first bite of his still-warm pastry. How much longer ’til you turn sixteen?

Five months.

After devouring his first muffin, the sturdy police officer brushed the crumbs from his mustache and reached for a second. Kya, get the Wheeler boy and go home. I don’t want to write your daddy a ticket for child endangerment.

I nodded. Now, don’t forget to remind Dorothea that she needs to bring her Cadillac in for its inspection. I’ll change the oil and rotate the tires for free ’cause you let me go this morning.

Officer Dixon cleared his throat. Kya, now you know this won’t work on everyone, right? You haven’t met the new detective, have you?

My brow wrinkled. What’s he drive?

Detective Lewis? Officer Dixon said between bites. The Explorer you tuned up last fall.

Ten speed V6 with 400 hp? I whistled. She was pretty. Almost as pretty as me.

Officer Dixon chuckled. Well, a word of caution: The man doesn’t drink coffee, and he eats healthy.

A grimace threatened my smile and I swallowed hard to suppress it. Must not roll eyes. I know his daughter, and she’s the same way. I’ll tread lightly.

Good. Well, I’ll get back on my post, Officer Dixon replaced his cap and nodded toward his car. Fetch Tyson and get off the road. Be careful and watch out for deer.

I clenched my teeth to maintain my grin. Damn it. Why can’t I get away from that Lewis girl? Now her Daddy too… I’m so sick of Samaya… I don’t even want my muffins anymore.

Officer Dixon smiled and retreated to his vehicle. I waited until he reached the door and then stashed the muffins in my backseat and rolled up my windows. The moment the kindly officer sat in his car, I peeked in my rearview mirror and grinned. Officer Dixon angrily waved his muffin out of the window as I threw gravel and raced for the Bottoms seconds after our chat.

Gets ’em every time.

Every Saturday morning I ventured into town to buy breakfast before picking up Tyson for work. And every Saturday morning, one of the local cops stopped me between breakfast and the Bottoms. Last month, I had pancakes with Officer Garcia, the new female cop from Florida, and around Christmas, biscuits with Officer Clarke. It never failed; I always encountered the unfortunate officer who worked the Friday night graveyard shift, and by the time I cruised by at five o’clock Saturday morning, they were in dire need of a pick-me-up in the form of some action or some breakfast.

Lucky for them, I was always on time with an extra hot black coffee with non-dairy milk and a flavored creamer and the breakfast item du jour. I gave the officer first pick of the food and then went on my way at fifty-five miles per hour.

A frustrated sigh escaped me following my encounter with Officer Dixon. I understood my approach wouldn’t work on every officer I encountered over the course of my life, but in my tiny, fishbowl of a town with less than twenty cops whose personal and professional vehicles I serviced all year long, it did. And as long as nothing changed over the next five months, come August first, I would be a licensed driver.

Once officer Dixon became a dot in my rearview mirror, my attention returned to the road ahead. A smile formed on my glossy coral lips. I welcomed the sunrise; its fiery eye illuminated by glimmering streaks of blue liner. It chased away the previous evening’s somber smoky eye. I loved how each new sunrise warmed the winter morning and ushered in a new day.

As I approached Willow Ridge’s housing projects, the straights of the town’s smooth tarmac rose and sank, giving way to miles of crooked secondary roads. I scowled as my car rolled through a puddle. Stupid snow. Hundreds of stubborn slicks devoid of ice remained from the last storm as if their mere presence could stave off the arrival of warmer weather.

Flicking my turn signal down, I slowed to the suggested five miles per hour to minimize damage to the Tangerine Machine as we pulled off the main road and descended the rutted, unpaved hill into the Bottoms. A collection of thirty trailers in various stages of disrepair lined either side of the muddy path, and in the center of the valley, a small shopping center and Toole Town grounded the community. Where the thoroughfare curved past Toole Town, it split, leading to more housing. On the left, the road ended at the fenced lot for a series of dismal concrete fourplexes, while the path on the right snaked deeper into the woods.

I flicked my turn signal up and followed the familiar, tree-lined corridor to the heart of the development, where someone had sprinkled duplexes and dilapidated houses among the trees and broken street lamps. When I reached the dead end where the road ended and the dumpsters sat, I made a U-turn and flashed my lights at Tyson’s house.

Gray paint resembling dirty water coated the shotgun house’s exterior while crossed two-by-fours nailed to the windows served as burglar bars. Crumbled cinderblocks formed a makeshift staircase, and trash bags weighted by more cinderblocks patched the roof. Demolition would have been an upgrade, yet the two-bedroom residence Tyson shared with his grandma and two brothers still fared better than some of the others.

I sighed and drummed on my steering wheel. At least he’s got a job. Things have been worse…

From a triangle of an unobstructed living room window, I watched Tyson hand mugs and spoons to his six and four-year-old brothers, Kahlil and Ahmad. After sitting the boys in front of the TV with breakfast, Tyson jogged out to the car.

My nails dug into the steering wheel. "Why is he so fine?"

Ten years after we first met and the boy still made my heart race. I bit my lip as Tyson approached the car. The slight cling of his jeans to his muscular thighs and the intensity of his dark eyes mesmerized me. My knees bounced in anticipation. Lord, if you want me to behave, you shouldn’t have made him this gorgeous.

When Tyson arrived, he studied me for a moment before opening my door. Good morning, he said before nodding at the passenger’s seat. You know what’s up.

Aww, do I have to?

His beautifully sculpted lips parted in a glorious smile. For the next five months, yes.

And what do I get for my cooperation?

Tyson leaned down and captured my lips in a forceful spearmint kiss that compelled me to unbuckle my seatbelt, lean forward, and wrap my arms around his neck. Yet, when my fingertips touched the nape of his neck, he recoiled.

I pouted. Tease.

Move, he whispered, tracing the contours of my face with his fingertips.

My heart thundered and a cascade of deliriously delighted giggles sprang from my lips as I slid onto the passenger’s seat. When Tyson took the wheel, he reached into my rear cup holder for the coffee I had waiting for him. Once we settled into our places, he pulled off. After his first few sips of coffee, Tyson reached for my hand and steered with the other. He expertly navigated the darkened paths in the Bottoms to locate the seldom-used alternate exit behind Toole Town and headed for my house.

I leaned against the seat and gazed at Tyson in the early morning haze. Everything. That’s what he meant to me. Best friend, confidante, lover—those were only a few of his roles in my life. For years, everyone had tried deciphering our relationship, and none had managed to scratch the surface of the beautiful, complicated mess that was us.

So, I said, squeezing Tyson’s hand. Are we still down for cartoons and candy with the boys tonight?

Tyson cleared his throat. I thought you were going to the dance with Kenny and the guys?

What? Why would I do that?

’Cause spending Valentine’s Day at my house with me and two elementary school kids is lame.

Tyson, I growled.

You need to go out and have fun, Tyson maintained, never taking his eyes off the road. Get dressed up and go to the dance with the guys. Enjoy yourself.

’Cause people don’t already call me a hoe and everything else behind my back? I shoved his hand away. What do I look like, showing up at a Valentine’s dance with six guys, none of which are my boyfriend?

Tyson sighed. Like a beautiful girl who deserves a boyfriend that can afford to take you to a school dance…

My shoulders slumped. Babe…

Go to the dance, Kya.

Nope. I shook my head. Not gonna happen.

Ky—

Look, I’ve got six bags of candy in the trunk of my car that I intend to share with you and your brothers while we watch cartoons and eat pizza and wings, or something. Either ya’ll help me eat it, or I’ll sit at home and eat it by my damn self.

Tyson glanced at me with a confused frown. What?

Mm-hmm. I’m gonna eat all that shit by myself, and at around 2 a.m. when I’m hanging over my toilet puking Snickers, Skittles, and candy hearts, I’mma video call you so you can see what you made me do.

A tiny snort came from the driver’s side of the car. Kya?

Hmm?

You’re insane, he chuckled.

Mmm-hmm. And you love me, so what’s that make you?

As crazy as you, he admitted, making the left onto Murphy Road.

Chapter 2

Five dogs galloped along the fence to meet the car as we rumbled up the gritty county road leading to my house. Amid the flying gravel, barking dogs, and the throbbing baseline from the stereo, I turned to Tyson. Pizza, wings, or subs?

Subs, Tyson conceded. We had pizza for homecoming and wings for the Super Bowl.

Soon, we pulled into the barn across from our yellow farmhouse and parked my car. Instead of getting out immediately, we sat inside, neither of us speaking, both of us hardly breathing. He reached for my hand and pulled my fingers to his lips, kissing each one. Across the yard, Daddy and my older brother, Drew, turned on the lights and heaters in the shop while my twin brother, Kenny, bustled around upstairs in the house above.

When the song on the radio ended, and the next one began. Tyson sighed and killed the ignition. You ready?

I nodded. Go ahead. I’ll catch up.

He paused, giving me a deep, impassioned stare that undermined my already fragile resolve. With a soft sigh, I shut my eyes and turned away, digging my nails into the door. My arms trembled with the overwhelming need to touch him, hold onto him, but no good would come from that. I didn’t open my eyes until I heard Tyson grab the muffins off my backseat and exit the car. As he walked toward the house, I collapsed against my seat. The things he does to me…

By the time I composed myself, the dogs had brought their frenzy into the barn, undoubtedly, in search of the lady who doled out the food.

Good morning, my babies, I cooed at the two German Shepherds and three Dobermans leaping at my car door. Let’s get ya’ll some breakfast.

Without further delay, I hopped out of the car and jogged over to the house, all five dogs running at my sides. When we reached the shop, I prepped their breakfast and scooped heaping servings into their bowls.

Tyson peeked through the back door as I resealed the dog food. I saved you two muffins and microwaved some bacon for you, he called. You better hurry, though, it’s disappearing fast.

He’s got the blueberry streusel and hummingbird muffins and he made bacon ’cause he knows I love sweet and savory. I bounced on the balls of my feet and grinned. I love him.

Once I finished with the dogs and washed my hands in the shop sink, I ran into the kitchen and flung my arms around Tyson’s neck to thank him for my muffins properly.

Your dad and Drew are in the dining room, Tyson hissed, leaning away. And I don’t know where Kenny is.

I walked into the hallway and stood at the bottom of the stairs. KEN-NAY?

WHAT?

WHERE YOU AT?

Kenny grumbled. GETTIN’ DRESSED. WHATTYA WANT?

Noth-ing, I sang, sauntering into the kitchen.

Tyson pinched the bridge of his nose. You two are definitely twins, he murmured before rewarding me with a quick kiss. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pecking at his lips, chin, and cheek in hopes of luring him into something deeper, but—

Tyson, you coming? Daddy called from the dining room. Food’s getting cold.

Tyson leaped away from me as if my kisses burnt him. Coming. Just grabbing a drink.

Ughh. I marched over to the cabinet above the sink, flung it open with a bang, and yanked a mug down for Tyson. As he poured himself a cup of coffee and rushed into the dining room, I slammed the cabinet door shut. Storming over to the fridge, I grabbed a Red Bull and gave the tab a rough flick to mask my petulant sigh.

They gotta be doing this on purpose, I muttered on my way to breakfast. If Mama were still here, none of this would even be an issue.

Though Tyson had been with our family for ten years, we understood our relationship had to remain on the DL once it became romantic. And by down low, I mean subterranean. Not only to safeguard Tyson’s job but because in the Murphy family, we had rules—a ton of them, to be precise—in both the spoken and unspoken variety. And after living with us for over a decade, Tyson possessed an intimate knowledge of their most sacred