Read Nothing but Shadows for Free Online

change—actually like a real Shadowhunter. More like a real Shadowhunter than James did, truth be told, since James was . . . not as short as Thomas, but not tall yet, and what his mother described as wiry. Which was a kind way to say “no real evidence of muscles in view.” Several girls, in fact, turned to look at Matthew in gear.
    “Mr. Herondale has volunteered to teach you how to staff fight,” Ragnor Fell said. “If you plan to murder each other, go farther down the field where I cannot see you and won’t have to answer awkward questions.”
    “James,” said Matthew, in the voice that everyone else liked to listen to so much and that struck James as constantly mocking. “This is so kind of you. I think I do remember a few moves with the staff from training with my mama and my brother. Please be patient with me. I may be a little rusty.”
    Matthew strolled down the field, the sun brilliant on green grass and his gold hair alike, and weighed the staff in one hand. He turned to James, and James had the sudden impression of narrowed eyes: a look of real and serious intent.
    Then Matthew’s face and the trees both went sailing by, as Matthew’s staff scythed James’s legs out from under him and James went tumbling to the ground. James lay there dazed.
    “You know,” said Matthew thoughtfully. “I may not be so terribly rusty after all.”
    James scrambled to his feet, clutching at both his staff and his dignity. Matthew moved into position to fight him, the staff as light and easily balanced in his hand as if he were a conductor gesturing with his baton. He moved with easy grace, like any Shadowhunter would, but somehow as if he was playing, as if at any moment he might be dancing.
    James realized, to his overwhelming disgust, that this was yet another thing Matthew was good at.
    “Best of three,” he suggested.
    Matthew’s staff was a blur between his hands, suddenly. James did not have time to shift position before a jarring blow landed on the arm that was holding his staff, then his left shoulder so he could not defend. James blocked the staff when it came toward his midsection, but that turned out to be a feint. Matthew scythed him off at the knees again and James wound up flat on his back in the grass. Again.
    Matthew’s face came into view. He was laughing, as usual. “Why stop at three?” he asked. “I can stand around and beat you all day.”
    James hooked his staff behind Matthew’s ankles and tripped him up. He knew it was wrong, but in the moment he did not care.
    Matthew landed on the grass with a surprised “Oof!” which James found briefly satisfying. Once there, he seemed happy enough to lie in the grass. James found himself being regarded by one brown eye amid the greenery.
    “You know,” Matthew said slowly, “most people like me.”
    “Well . . . congratulations!” James snapped, and scrambled to his feet.
    It was the exact wrong moment to stand up.
    It should have been the last moment of James’s life. Perhaps because he thought it would be the last, it seemed to stretch out, giving James time to see it all: how the battering ram had flown through the hands of Christopher’s team in the wrong direction. He saw the horrified faces of the whole team, even Christopher paying attention for once. He saw the great wooden log, sailing directly at him, and heard Matthew scream a warning much too late. He saw Ragnor Fell jump up, his deck chair flying, and lift his hand.
    The world transformed into sliding grayness, everything still moving slower than James was. Everything was sliding and insubstantial: the battering ram came at him and through him, unable to hurt him; it was like being splashed with water. James lifted a hand and saw the gray air full of stars.
    It was Ragnor who had saved him, James thought as the world tipped from bright, strange grayness into black. This was warlock magic.
    He did not know until later that the Academy class had all watched, expecting to see a