Eyes of Lightning: The Thunderbird Legacy, #1

By Erin Keyser Horn

After a thousand years of curses, the Thunderbird's secrets are about to be unleashed in the charming town of Galena, Illinois.   

Ivy is a normal fifteen-year-old girl . . . if you consider yellow eyes and storm-chasing urges normal. Life gets even more normal when she runs away from home to find Walter Nimiki, the grandfather she's never met. It's he who tells her the truth—Ivy is a descendant of the cursed Thunder Clan, so the boy she'll someday fall in love with will die young. Walter believes Ivy is the hope the clan has waited for, the one who can end the curse. Before she can learn more, a terrible accident leaves Walter in a coma. Ivy can't save Walter without the help of three boys: Gabe is keeping a promise to Walter, Cal always knows what she's feeling, and Dan can't stand the sight of her. Ivy doesn't know what would be worse—failing to save Walter, or accidentally falling in love with a boy. Either way, someone will die.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Superstorm Productions
• Release date: Nov 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781941994085

Book preview

Chapter 1

I felt the storm coming long before I saw the clouds.

Inside the gas station I sat in a grubby booth, my fingers drumming on the greasy tabletop, my knees jittering underneath. I’d been antsy for a while—running away from home had that effect on me—but after seeing the first lightning bolt, now I felt downright twitchy.

I’d come so far, and so close to where I needed to be. After a Greyhound ride to Chicago, a middle-of-the-night layover at the station, and then four more stops as the bus crawled west, I was finally in Galena, Illinois. Five miles from my destination.

Five miles wasn’t the problem. I had a map, and walking through a storm was the perfect way to burn energy. The problem was—I didn’t know what to expect once I got there. If the situation turned into a minefield, strolling off the property would be a lousy escape plan.

I thought about calling a cab so it was ready and waiting if I needed it. But then I might not have enough money for a bus ticket home. Would there be any cars on the country road for me to flag down? Did people even pick up hitchhikers anymore? I wasn’t a serial killer, but with my luck I’d get in a car with one. 

Groaning, I dropped my head into my hands. I’d hardly slept on the bus or at the station, and exhaustion clawed at my brain. In my careful plotting to travel three hundred miles, I hadn’t let myself consider all that could go wrong. It was typical of me to wait ‘til the last minute to reconsider.

Are you okay? a boy asked.

The words seemed distant, meant for someone else. Then I felt a slight touch on my shoulder. Startled, I looked up.

The boy touching me quickly dropped his hand. Sorry, he said with a sheepish grin. Didn’t mean to sneak-attack.

No words came out of my mouth. Maybe because of my tired and stressed condition. Or maybe because of the boy—the way his clipped accent used sneak-attack like a real verb. Or how his cinnamon-colored hair swooped close to his hazel eyes. Or how he could smile so easily and warmly at a stranger.

Hungry? he asked, pulling a bag of M&Ms out of his pocket and offering me a hit.

I shook my head, nonplussed by this anomaly of a boy. He looked too skinny to have a candy addiction.

He gestured at the booth seat across from me. May I?

Guys never flirted with me, so this boy’s parents must’ve raised him with exceptional manners. I didn’t want company—I needed to figure out my plan—but the boy took my silence as acquiescence and slid into the seat.

So, he said cheerfully, as if we were old friends, what’s wrong?

I was wearing tinted glasses to hide my eyes, so I assumed he couldn’t read my expression. If he could, he’d realize he was weirding me out.

Perhaps he could read me, because he leaned forward with a somewhat more serious expression on his face. The freckles on his nose made it hard to take him seriously. Look, it’s none of my business. But you’re obviously in some kind of trouble. I’d be happy to help.

The thought was absurd. Ask a strange boy for help? I couldn’t trust him. Maybe he used his chocolate and innocent face to lure girls into his vehicle and drive them to the middle of nowhere to . . . whatever. He was maybe fourteen, if that, so he couldn’t have a driver’s license. He wore a Sanctus Real t-shirt and a hopeful smile, like I might help him, instead of the other way around.

Gram was always saying that God sends us angels in unexpected ways. She might’ve said this boy was an angel ready to help me in my hour of need. I didn’t really believe that, but I couldn’t lose the chance due to simple distrust.

Do— My voice cracked from neglect, and I had to clear my throat and start over. Do you know Walter Nimiki? Galena was ten times the size of my hometown, so I had no hope of the boy knowing an old man who lived in the country.

Luckily I still wore the tinted glasses, or else the boy’s grin might’ve blinded me. Sure, he said. Everyone around here knows Walter.

I blinked. That answer hadn’t even crossed my mind as a possibility. Um, okay. A million questions raced to be first, but all were too personal if I wanted to keep up my act. So I settled for the lamest one. Is he . . . a nice guy?

The boy nodded with confidence. One of the nicest.

Part of me relaxed. I decided to try out the story I’d fabricated. I’m writing a school paper about Nimiki Bluff, and I was hoping to interview Walter. Do you think he’d mind?

Walter loves talking about the bluff, the boy assured me. You’ll probably learn more than you ever wanted to.

It seemed the boy was very familiar with both Walter and Nimiki Bluff. This made me curious, but I’d wasted enough time in the gas station. I leaned down to scoop my backpack off the floor. Thank you for your help. I should go before the rain starts. I said this to sound like a normal person. Honestly, I couldn’t wait for the rain to start.

You can’t walk in the storm, the boy exclaimed. He stood quickly, and again I had the sensation of being light years behind him. We can give you a ride.

Not knowing who the we entailed, I was weirded out again. I don’t even know who you are, I blurted.

He looked appalled by his slip in etiquette. I’m sorry, I should’ve introduced myself. I’m Caleb Drysdale, but my friends call me Cal. He extended his hand—this time it was candy-free. I stared at it for a moment, my mind reeling. Was I supposed to call him Caleb or Cal? Did knowing his name imply that I knew him? Did he really want to shake my hand as if we were forty years old?

Slowly, I took Cal’s hand. The rightness of it amazed me. As if the life lines on our palms somehow connected, turning dead-end roads into highways. I thought I saw surprise in his eyes too. I’m Ivy.

I was relieved when he didn’t ask my last name.

* * * *

It turned out that the whole time Cal had been sneak-attacking me, his dad had been fueling their car. Cal led me outside and introduced me to Gary Drysdale, who was like a grown-up version of Cal—same eyes, hair, and flair for friendly chatter. When Cal asked him if I could get a ride to Walter’s, I expected him to say no. Instead he agreed without any hesitation. Perhaps the Drysdales were naïve. More likely I was a scrawny girl who couldn’t look intimidating if I tried.

We live on Pilot Knob Road, a couple miles north of Walter, Cal explained to me. So it’s no trouble at all!

What were the odds of Cal living so close to Walter? It seemed more likely that Cal was the angel I was hoping for.

He pointed to my pack. You want that in the trunk?

I gripped the strap tighter. No, thanks. I didn’t know why I was reluctant to part with it. What was I planning to do—roll out of a moving vehicle for a quick getaway?

Cal opened the back door of the station wagon for me. I ducked in, expecting him to sit shotgun. Instead he followed me into the backseat. When his leg came dangerously close to mine, I hastily slid across to the opposite window and stuffed the bag between us.

So where you from? Cal asked me as his dad pulled out of the gas station.

Without thinking, I almost gave him the truth—Broadlands, Illinois. But that was a long way to come for a school paper. I couldn’t pretend to be from Galena, the school Cal most likely went to. I struggled to think of the last town the Greyhound had passed through. I remembered it had been a girl’s name . . .

Sorry, I’m being nosy, Cal said, his smile faltering at my hesitation.

No, I said quickly. For whatever reason, I didn’t want to hurt Cal. It would be like kicking a puppy. Suddenly my brain latched on to the answer I was searching for. Elizabeth. I’m from Elizabeth.

Oh, Cal said, brightening. That’s not far. But how did you get to Galena? You didn’t walk thirteen miles, did you?

I forced a laugh, trying to scramble out of the hole I was digging. Nah, my dad gave me a ride into town. He, um, had to work though. But he’ll be done in time to pick me up from Walter’s house.

This pathetic line of reasoning did not explain why my father would leave me at a gas station. Mr. Drysdale unknowingly saved me by asking about my connection to Walter. Thankfully Cal jumped in, so excited to know something about me he could tell his dad. He talked about my school paper while we left the city of Galena and entered the countryside. The road was curvy and hilly, not at all like the flat, straight-shot roads back home.

The clouds gathered ahead of us, laced together with lightning and ripped apart by thunder. We kept getting closer and closer to the storm, whereas it didn’t seem to move at all. It just hovered there, keeping its rain secret.

Watching the storm made me twitchier than ever, so I chose to focus on the trees. I’d seen more forested hills on this trip than I’d ever seen in my life. My home in Champaign County was known for its farmland and lack of topography, not its trees and high elevation. I loved to climb the one tree in our yard. During storms, being in a high location with optimal sky viewing was an obsessive urge. Today the urge felt even stronger than usual—maybe because I’d been stuck in the Greyhound for so long.

Ivy? Cal said. I got the impression it wasn’t the first time he’d said my name.

Wincing with guilt, I turned from the window to look at him. Yeah?

He handed me an empty M&M bag turned inside out. I was about to offer a sarcastic thanks, but then I saw numbers written in blue ink on the plastic.

My phone number, he explained. In case you . . . in case you need a ride home.

I stared at this boy I’d just met, whose kindness I didn’t deserve. I could tell by his solemn face this wasn’t a sneaky way of flirting with me. He’d probably guessed I’d lied about my dad. Now he was offering me a lifeline in case I hit a dead-end. I couldn’t find the words to tell him how grateful I was, so I simply nodded and slipped the number into my pocket.

We’re almost there, Cal said.

My head snapped back to the window. The first thing I saw was a brick building on the west side of the road. The marquee in front read:

HAZELWOOD VETERINARY CLINIC

TRAVIS HAZELWOOD, DVM

This obviously wasn’t Walter’s house, but I could feel the car slowing. About a quarter mile past the clinic I saw another sign:

NIMIKI BLUFF

PROPERTY OF JO DAVIESS

CONSERVATION FOUNDATION

Cal’s dad turned at the sign. A gravel road stretched ahead of us, but the car veered left into a driveway. That was when I saw the old two-story farmhouse. Quaint blue shutters hugged the windows, but the house’s dull white paint was flaking off like dry skin. Two wooden rocking chairs swayed on the front porch. The driveway circled behind the house, where I glimpsed a white machine-shed and a small red barn. Chickens roamed free in the yard, constantly strutting and pecking. And everywhere trees—huge trees in the front yard, and smaller trees at the side of the house. 

My fingers fumbled to open the car door. When I stepped out, wind swept through my clothes and tangled my hair. The air wasn’t cold, yet my skin prickled. A flash of light made me look up. The storm clouds, dark and writhing, loomed overhead. A crack of thunder answered the lightning strike. And still it did not rain.

The storm made my gut-churning nervousness worse. I always dreaded meeting new people, afraid of how they would react to me. This time went beyond dread; I really wanted to make a good first impression. I slung my bag over my shoulder and fussed with the hem of my gray t-shirt.

Ivy? Cal said from inside the car, probably wondering why I was standing there in the open doorway.

I plastered a smile on my face before turning to him. Thanks for your help.

Cal’s smile was worried. You’re welcome.

Hope you get an A on your paper, Mr. Drysdale said from the driver’s seat.

Thanks. And thanks for the ride.

No problem at all.

I couldn’t stall any longer. With a goodbye to Mr. Drysdale and a lingering last look at Cal, I shut the car door and walked toward the house. I kept my back straight and my feet steady so they wouldn’t know how scared I was. I heard the car drive away, but I didn’t turn to watch it. As nice as Cal had been, I didn’t expect to ever see him again. Walter was the only reason I was here. I had to meet him. I had to learn the truth.

Slowly I climbed the front steps to the old porch, pushing my tinted glasses all the way up my nose to make sure my eyes were hidden. I lifted my sweaty fist and knocked on the door. I stared down at my feet to make sure they didn’t bolt.

Nothing happened. The ocean of possible scenarios threatened to drown me. It was nearly lunchtime on a Saturday; maybe he’d gone to Galena to eat at a restaurant. Maybe—

The door swung open. My eyes traveled from white socks to faded blue jeans to a black flannel shirt to a face. A familiar face.

Speechless, I could only stare at him—stare at him for the first time since I’d never met him or even seen a picture of him. In some ways, he was different than I’d predicted. Taller, broader, darker. His wrinkly skin was a rich brown, his wide-set eyes nearly black. His long black hair was streaked with a few strands of gray.

But the shape and contours of his face were just as I’d imagined. He had the right forehead, nose, cheekbones, jaw, ears. The same face as my father.

This had to be Walter Nimiki. My father’s father. The grandfather I’d never met . . . because my father had always told me he was dead.

Chapter 2

Hello," Walter said to me. His voice was a deep, rich bass. His expression was friendly, but perhaps a little puzzled as to why a strange girl stood at his door.

Only when I opened my mouth to speak did I realize I’d been holding my breath. I had to suck in some air before I could say anything. Hi, I said, still breathless. I took another breath and asked, Are you Walter Nimiki?

I am. He still had his smile, but it seemed more bemused by the second. I had to do something before he shut the door in my face.

I’m writing a school paper on Nimiki Bluff, I blurted. Forcing myself to slow down, I added, I was hoping to ask you some questions.

His face suddenly cleared. Of course, I’d be happy to answer your questions.

I felt my own face forming a smile. Thank you.

Walter’s eyes focused on me, his smile wavering. Have we met before? You look . . . somewhat familiar.

The breath I’d been inhaling almost choked me. I swallowed a cough and said, No, sir. I’m not from around here.

And your name is—?

I paused before answering. Ivy.

Something flashed across his face—sadness?—but was gone before I could identify it. Well then, Ivy, if you give me a minute to grab my boots, I’ll show you around the bluff.

Thank you, I said again, not sure what else to say. While Walter searched for his boots, I slumped against the door jam and tried to catch my breath. I made a mental note to never pursue a career as a spy or I’d battle constant asphyxiation.

When Walter returned I straightened with what I hoped was a confident pose. Maybe conversation would drown out the butterfly opera in my stomach. Walter led me down the steps to the driveway—then stopped, gazing around. Where’s your car?

I tripped on my own feet, barely catching myself before I tumbled to the ground. Though I’d recently turned fifteen, strangers often guessed my short, skinny body to be younger. No one had ever expected me to have a driver’s license. I got a ride from the Drysdales, I said.

At the mention of the Drysdales, Walter’s smile flashed like lightning, disappearing just as fast. But you said you’re not from around here. How do you know the Drysdales?

The wind tugged at my hair and clothes. I tried to stand firm against it. I don’t know them. I was in Galena, and they offered to give me a ride.

Walter studied me closely. His dark eyes seemed to expose all my secrets. How will you get home?

I have it all worked out. That wasn’t exactly true. I had ideas, but no definite plans. Everything hinged on Walter.

He seemed just as unconvinced as Cal had been earlier, but he didn’t push me for details. He took a few more steps before stopping again, glancing at the angry black clouds above us. I usually walk to the bluff, Walter said. But if you’re worried about rain—

I’m not worried, I cut in, then cursed myself for sounding so eager. What normal person wished to get soaked? Trying to fix my conversational damage, I quickly added, But I understand if you’d rather not go. We can do the interview in the house.

Walter continued to stare skyward. A frown etched deep lines into his face. Normally I’d say we could go, he said, then added more softly, but this storm seems unpredictable.

I figured all storms were unpredictable, but I didn’t comment. We could talk at the house until the storm clears, I offered. It didn’t seem wise for an old man to go walking in a storm, even if I itched to go.

Sounds like a plan, he said, reluctantly pulling his eyes from the clouds.

We climbed the porch steps. For a moment Walter hesitated, and I figured he didn’t want to invite me inside. I had to admit—it hurt. Though I couldn’t blame him; I was a stranger. To take pressure off him, I sat in one of the porch’s rocking chairs. He sat in the other.

He caught me studying him, so I got busy pulling a notebook and pen out of my backpack. I paused with my pen hovering over a blank page. When I’d been researching online, I’d only sought information about Walter. I hadn’t taken time to research Nimiki Bluff. Now I would appear clueless. I’m not sure where to begin, I admitted.

Walter’s face, so rough and lined, softened a little. The real story began long ago. My family has owned this land for several generations. About three years ago, I sold eighty-five acres to the Jo Daviess Conservation Foundation, and they named the property Nimiki Bluff. Walter paused, glancing at my blank notebook. I twitched and began to frantically take notes.

Perhaps I can save you some writing, he said. From the pocket of his flannel shirt he pulled a brochure that had been folded and unfolded so many times, it seemed ready to disintegrate. He leaned over to hand it to me.

You don’t need this back? I asked.

He shook his head with a wry smile. The foundation gave me a box of them. I’ve been carrying this one around in case I needed it. And what do you know, here it’s getting used on a rainy day.

It looked like it should be raining, but it wasn’t. Smiling, I studied the cover of the brochure. Nimiki Bluff boasted a stunning view of the Mississippi River valley. The photo had been taken in autumn—I knew because of the palette of bold colors in the tree leaves. It was a sight I longed to see in person.

Opening the brochure, I scanned the information inside. I found what Walter had already told me about JDCF buying the acreage. I read that it was now an Illinois Land and Water Reserve. The site was archaeologically significant because of the fifty-one burial mounds on the property.

Whoa, I said aloud without meaning to. I glanced up at Walter. Burial mounds? As in . . . Native American cemeteries?

Basically, yes, Walter said. That was how the Effigy Mound culture buried their dead a thousand or so years ago.

You can trace your lineage back a thousand years? I asked, not able to keep the skepticism from my voice.

Walter rocked in his chair for a moment before answering. Not exactly. I don’t have records or a detailed family tree. The Mound Builders used Nimiki Bluff as a ceremonial site, not as a home. No one alive today knows for sure what happened to them or where they went. Or perhaps their culture changed until they no longer built mounds. Regardless, the Black Hawk War of 1832 drove out all Indians still living east of the Mississippi River. In 1857, my great-great-great-great-great-grandparents made their way back to this land and bought it. They said the land belonged to their ancestors, the Mound Builders. My family has lived here ever since.

My pen automatically took notes, but I barely knew what I was writing. My mind was grappling with too many images. If those are your ancestors buried out there, I said, how could you sell the land?

The rocking chair squeaked to a stop. I glanced up to see Walter’s face, hardened into stone. The foundation will preserve Nimiki Bluff long after I’m gone. Otherwise, the land would’ve been auctioned off to the highest bidder after I died. A farmer would be tempted to till that land, and then the mounds would be destroyed and forgotten.

I lowered my eyes, shame burning my face. I’m sorry, sir, I meant no disrespect. I just thought . . . I thought you might leave the land to one of your relatives.

A loud silence stretched out, in which I dared not look at Walter. Had I gone too far? Blown my cover?

When he finally spoke, his voice sounded brittle. I have no living relatives save my son, and he . . . he has no interest in the land.

My eyes opened so wide, I felt them prickling with the need to blink. I stared at the brochure without seeing it. His son—he had to be talking about my father, Jonas. Walter didn’t even know I existed. Jonas must’ve left his childhood home and never came back, never even told Walter about me.

Walter sighed. I’m sorry if I upset you. It was a fair question, and I have no right to take offense. It happens to be a sore spot for me. I argued with myself for a long time before deciding to sell the land. But I didn’t have any other good options. I’m not getting any younger, you see.

He had the aura of a gentleman, and he wasn’t too prideful to apologize. If Walter had done something to drive Jonas away, surely he would’ve apologized for it. Knowing how stubborn Jonas was, he was probably the one to blame for their long separation.

I wanted to tell Walter who I was, but would he believe me? And if he did, would he be mad at me for not finding him sooner? If only he’d known about me before he sold the property. Then he wouldn’t have thought himself alone in the world.

Ivy? Are you alright?

Yes, I said automatically, though it was probably a lie. I’d been lying a lot that day. I blinked a few times, and the brochure came into focus. I examined the third page, the page I hadn’t read yet, but didn’t even notice the words. All I could see was the photo. It was an aerial shot, perhaps taken from a crop plane or a helicopter. It showed a grassy field with trees at the edges. In the middle of the field was a shape, its grass mowed shorter than the surrounding grass. The shape had a fanned tail, two outstretched wings, and a head at the top of the body.

"What is that?" I asked, pressing hard on the photo so my finger wouldn’t tremble. 

Walter rocked forward to see what I was pointing at. That’s one of the burial mounds, the Thunderbird. It’s the highlight of Nimiki Bluff, because it’s the only remaining bird effigy mound known in Illinois.

Thunderbird? I whispered. A gust of wind fluttered my notebook paper. I gripped the brochure to keep it from flying away.

You haven’t heard the legend? Native Americans believe the Thunderbird is a spirit, perhaps the most powerful of all spirits. The wink of its eyes produces lightning, and the flap of its wings creates thunder. It has rain for blood and a storm for a soul.

It didn’t escape my notice that Walter used the present tense, as if the Thunderbird was with us at that very moment. My heart was pounding, but I wasn’t sure why. Who would be buried in the Thunderbird mound? I asked, still transfixed by the photo.

No one. The Thunderbird was built as a tribute, not as a burial mound. Walter’s deep voice rose above the howls of the wind. But if the stories are true, the other mounds at Nimiki Bluff hold Thunder Clan members, which is the clan I’m descended from. Supposedly, one of the mounds is the resting place for the clan’s most famous leader, a powerful shaman named Storm Bringer. He had the eyes of a bird, and so the tribe believed he was the embodiment of the Thunderbird.

The wind ripped the brochure from my shaking fingers. The world around us darkened