Goody Magic Academy, Year Three

Chapter 32

Chapter

Thirty-Two

L ucien landed and instantly ran over to Raven. She was panting and suffering, but alive. The vampires landed next and stood behind them.

“The high priestess may be dead,” Balthazar said, “but I’m not.” He twirled the hellish sword in his hand. “Say goodbye to your mate, Lucien. I should warn you, paybacks are hell .”

I released another stream of fire at the demon. It engulfed him briefly but then died down.

Balthazar threw his head back and let out a sinister laugh. “Did you actually think fire could hurt me? Me, who lives in Hell itself?”

Headmaster Tarus faced him. “No, but I know someone who can send you back there.”

Lightning crackled behind Kamaron, Finn, and I—strange lightning, with a power in it I had never felt before.

Balthazar’s face drained of color when he saw it, his eyes widening in obvious terror. The hellish sword in his hand trembled, its menacing aura diminished by its wielder’s sudden uncertainty.

“No… It can’t be…” Balthazar whispered fearfully.

A blinding burst of lightning split the sky open, striking the ground with a deafening crack. The air was alive with residual energy, the scent of ozone sharp and pungent. As the light faded, a figure materialized where the bolt had touched the earth.

The newcomer towered over everyone else present, his flowing black hair cascading over broad, muscular shoulders. Tight leather pants hugged his powerful legs, and in his right hand he held a sword that glowed with inner light. From his back, a pair of enormous white wings unfurled, stretching out to an impressive span before settling again.

“Hello, Balthazar,” the imposing figure said, his voice resonating with power and authority. “You didn’t really think you could slither your way around in the swamp without attracting my attention, did you?”

Balthazar’s lips curled back in a snarl, revealing teeth that seemed sharper than before. His entire body was tense, coiled like a tightly wound spring.

“We’ll meet again, Michael,” the demon growled, sweat beading on his forehead.

Balthazar’s form began to waver, as if seen through intense heat. His outline blurred, then contracted until it was nothing more than a single, brilliant point of flame. The fire flickered once—twice—and then winked out of existence, leaving behind only the lingering scent of brimstone and sulfur and a profound, echoing silence.

Headmaster Tarus’ weathered face broke into a warm smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Michael! Thank you for answering my call. I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to help us.”

Michael sheathed his sword and extended his hand, taking the headmaster’s palm in his firm, reassuring grip. “Whenever Balthazar is involved, I’m always happy to intervene.”

Wait… Michael… not the Archangel Michael?

As if plucking the thought from my mind, Michael’s piercing gaze fell upon me as he nodded. I felt that his eyes, impossibly ancient yet eternally young, were peering right into my soul. “Peyton. I have heard much about you. In fact, you’re all he’s talked about.”

With a casual snap of his fingers, the very fabric of reality seemed to ripple as Jaxon materialized before us. He stood whole and unhurt, handsome as always, that familiar mischievous grin playing over his features. The sight of him alive and well sent my heart soaring.

In my elation, I forgot everything else. My dragon form melted away, scales giving way to skin. Behind me, I dimly registered Twyla’s startled cry as she was dumped unceremoniously on the ground.

Not caring that I was naked, I rushed toward Jaxon, tears blurring my vision. His arms enveloped me, strong and real and wonderfully alive. As he lifted me, spinning us in a joyous circle, the world around us faded away. In that moment, it was just us two, reunited against all the odds.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and unrelenting. “You’re back. You’re back. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” I sobbed, the words tumbling out in a desperate litany. My fingers clutched at Jaxon’s shirt, terrified he might disappear again if I let go for even a second.

Jaxon’s eyes, warm and loving, met mine. His hand gently cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear. “It’s not your fault, Peyton. None of it was.” His voice was soft but insistent.

Behind me, Twyla cleared her throat. “I think you might want to, um, get dressed?” she said, a hint of amusement in her tone. She held out the bundle of my clothes, averting her eyes slightly.

Heat rushed to my face as I suddenly became acutely aware of everyone around me. Gratefully taking the clothes from Twyla, I hurriedly dressed.

Valentin stepped forward, his face a mask of astonishment. His eyes darted between Jaxon and Michael, as if trying to piece together an impossible puzzle. “Jaxon... I remember now. You’re not a dishwasher at all, or delusional. You’re Prince Rocco’s cousin, aren’t you?”

Jaxon’s gaze shifted to Michael, a silent question in his eyes. The archangel’s massive wings rustled slightly as he shrugged, a surprisingly human gesture for such a divine being.

“You sacrificed yourself to save Peyton,” Michael said in a voice that carried the power of eternity. “I’ve been watching you, and although you didn’t always say the right things, you always did the right actions.” A small smile curled the corners of his mouth. “The curse has been lifted, and all will remember who you are.”

Michael walked past us to my father, who still lay panting weakly on the ground, and called out into the sky. “Raphael, I need you.”

A ball of white light immediately descended from the sky and a young man appeared. His long blond hair was pulled back into a man bun, and he had on a plain red shirt and jeans.

Michael arched his eyebrow quizzically. “Hiking again?”

“Of course. You know how I love Scotland.” He scanned us and the cathedral. “Looks like I missed out on all the fun here.” He glanced down at my father. “I think you’ve suffered enough.”

Raphael extended his hand, placing it gently on my father’s shoulder. The touch looked casual enough, but the air around the two of them shimmered with untold power.

Before our eyes, a miraculous transformation began. The angry purple bruises that had marred my father’s face began to fade, shifting and dissolving like watercolors in the rain. The crusted scabs that had traced macabre patterns on his skin simply melted away, leaving behind clean, unblemished flesh.

His eyes, which had been swollen shut from repeated blows, gradually opened. The puffiness receded, revealing a bright and clear gaze. His split lip knitted itself back together, leaving not one trace of the brutal injury.

The changes didn’t stop there. My father’s hair, which had been a wild, matted mess, began to untangle and smooth itself out, all the dirt and grime disappearing as if they had never been there. In mere moments, his hair had transformed into a neat, trim style, as if he had just stepped out of a high-end barbershop.

My father stood before us, whole and unmarked. The haggard, beaten man was gone, replaced by a strong, dignified figure. He blinked, looking down at himself in wonder, then back up at Raphael with a mix of awe and gratitude. The entire process had taken only seconds.

Raphael’s hand lingered for a moment longer on my father’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort and reassurance before he stepped back, allowing us all to fully take in the miraculous transformation.

My father stretched out his arms toward me, the movement tentative but filled with hope. “Peyton…” he called, his voice cracking with emotion. The single word carried years of longing following a lifetime apart.

I hesitated, my gaze flicking between Jaxon and this man who was my father, yet a stranger. Jaxon nodded encouragingly, a soft smile on his face. With his silent support, I took one slow step forward, then another, until finally I broke into a run.

As I reached him, we collided in an embrace that was both awkward and desperate. His arms encircled me, strong yet gentle, as if afraid I might break or disappear. I breathed in his scent—a mixture of pine and cedar, unfamiliar, yet stirring something deep within me.

I tentatively wrapped my arms around him, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt. His body trembled slightly against mine, and I realized with a start that he was crying.

“My child…my dear, sweet child,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. His lips pressed against the crown of my head in a tender, almost reverent kiss. The gesture, though brand new, felt somehow right.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at me. His eyes, now clear and bright, studied my face with wonder, memorizing every detail. “I knew you would defeat her,” he said softly. “Even though I’ve never met you, I’ve always believed in you.”

We stood there, locked in our embrace, unwilling to let go just yet. It was a moment of new beginnings, a chance to forge the connection that had been denied us for so long. In my father’s arms, I felt a sense of completeness I hadn’t realized I was missing—and found a piece of myself that had finally clicked into place.