“No,” he snapped, and would certainly have summoned the book from Reina’s grasp and stormed out if not for the way she shielded it with her entire body. “This isn’t about you, Rhodes.”
She bristled. “What’s it about, then?”
“Nothing. Certainly nothing I need you for.”
Libby’s eyes narrowed, and Reina curled more determinedly around the book, tacitly assuring them both that she had no interest in what would follow and would certainly be of no help.
Nico, who had fought often enough with Libby Rhodes to know when a larger explosion was impending, abandoned the matter of the book and spun to take the stairs, irritated. He had done well enough for himself without a library’s help before. He would simply see to the matter of the wards without further discussion.
Or not. Behind him, Libby’s unshakable footsteps were dogged and crisp.
“Varona, if you’re planning to do something stupid—”
“First of all,” Nico said, spinning curtly to address her as she stumbled into his back, “if I were to elect to do something stupid, I would not require your opinion on the matter. Secondly—”
“You can’t just run around playing with things unnecessarily just because you’re bored,” Libby retorted, sounding matronly and exhausted. As if she were his mother or his keeper, which she resolutely was not. “What if you’re needed for something?”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. Something.” She glared at him, exasperated. “Perhaps it stands to reason, Varona, that you shouldn’t do stupid things simply because they’re stupid. Or does that somehow not compute?”
“If I’m bored, you’re certainly bored,” Nico offered in retaliatory accusation. “Just because you won’t admit it doesn’t make it any less true. And following me around to see what I do wrong gives you a bit of a thrill, doesn’t it?”
“I,” Libby replied hotly, “am not following you around. I’m putting myself to good use. I’m using the research we’re learning and applying it where I can, which is precisely what you should be doing.”
“Oh, truly? How magnificent for you. How scholarly you are,” Nico gushed in plaintive mockery, reaching out to pet her head. “That’s a good girl, Rhodes—”
She swatted his hand away, the air around them crackling with the sparks of her intemperance. “Just tell me what you’re up to, Varona. We could go about it faster if you just asked me for—”
“For what? For help?”
She fell silent.
“Would you have asked me for help, Rhodes?” Nico countered, aware how thinly skeptical his voice sounded. “We aren’t different people now just because we’ve come to a single agreement. Or have you forgotten we’re still competing?”
He regretted it the moment he said it, as it wasn’t what he meant. He hardly needed to make an enemy of Libby, and certainly did not aspire to waste time on any rivalries beyond what was necessary for initiation. He did, however, need her to stay out of his private business, and in this case, he very much did not want to hear the inevitable lecture on how he’d inadvertently allowed a misbehaving mermaid into the house. He doubted it would be brief, and he knew it would be followed extensively with questions, none of which he planned to answer.
“So that’s your idea of an alliance, then.” Libby’s voice was flat with anger.
No, not anger. Something more bitter, less malicious than that.
Brittle sadness.
“Let’s not pretend this is something it isn’t,” Nico said, because the damage had already been done, and it wasn’t as if she’d ever been known to forgive him. “We’re not friends, Rhodes. We never have been, we never will be—and,” he added, giving in to a burst of frustration that mixed unrelentingly with guilt, “since I can’t simply ask you to leave me alone—”
She spun away, the last glimpse of her expression one of hollow disappointment. Nico watched her dismount the stairs, taking a sharp turn to disappear from sight as a little echo of Gideon suddenly tutted softly in his head: Are you being nice to Rhodes?
No, of course not. Because there wasn’t a person in the world who could make him feel less adequate simply by existing, and besides. He had wards to fix.
Nico slid irascibly up the remainder of the stairs, taking a turn at the gallery in the opposite direction of the painted room and bedrooms. He would need privacy to work uninterrupted, which meant the ground floor was not an option, and upstairs contained plenty of unnecessary stages for empty grandeur where no one ever went. He closed himself into one of the gilded drawing rooms （it had long ago stopped being a place for aristocratic dances or whatever purpose the British required rooms to draw） and set himself to the task of mindful pacing, once again engaging the twitchy need for motion he habitually found expelling from his limbs.