Michael wasn't a very good liar. "Great. I'm red as a cherry, right?"
"Not at all," Myrnin said cheerfully. "You're definitely not as red as a cherry. Or an apple. Yet. That will take some time."
Claire tried to focus back on what was - hopefully - more important. "A light bomb?"
Myrnin looked suddenly a great deal more serious. "It's an inconvenience for a human," he said. "It would have been extremely damaging to me, or to any vampire, had I been the one to open the box."
"So who sent you a bomb?"
He shrugged. "Eh, it was so long ago. Might have been Klaus. But I might have actually sent it to myself. I'm not always that rational, you know. Mind you, I wouldn't open the last box if I were you."
Claire sent him a long, wordless look, then accepted the hand Michael extended to help her to her feet. She felt dizzy and - yes - sunburned, and a whole lot filthy. "Great. You might have booby-trapped your own boxes. Why would you do a thing like that?"
"Excellent question." Myrnin left her and went to the table, where he lifted from the open box a complicated-looking tangle of metal and wires - the kind of bomb an insane Victorian inventor might have made - and set it very carefully to one side. "I can only think that I meant it to protect what else was in the container."
He stood there staring into the box, not moving, and Claire finally rolled her eyes and said, "Well?"
"What?"
"What's in the box, Myrnin?"
In answer, he tipped it over in her direction. A cloud of dust fogged the air, and when it cleared, Claire saw that there was nothing in the box.
Nothing at all.
"I'm going home," she sighed. "This job sucks."
Michael gave her a ride back to the Glass House, which was what she meant when she said home, although technically she didn't live there. Technically, her parents had a room for her in their house, and her stuff was there. Mostly. Well, partly. And, according to the agreement she'd reached with them, she slept there most every night - for a few hours, anyway.
It was all part of her parents' grand scheme to keep her and Shane - well, maybe apart was too harsh. Casual. They didn't want their little girl shacking up with the town bad boy, even though Shane was not the town bad boy, and he and Claire were in love.
In love. That still gave her a delicious little tingle every time she thought about it.
"Parents," Claire said aloud. Michael sent her a look.
"And?"
"They bring the crazy," she said. "Is Shane home?"
"Not yet. I dropped Eve off at her first rehearsal." He smiled slowly. "Was she that excited when she got the letter?"
"Define excited. You mean, did she look like a cartoon character on crack? Yes. I never knew she was all into acting and stuff."
"She loves it. She's always acting out scenes from movies and TV shows in her room. When we were in high school, she used to organize these little plays in study hall, give us all parts she'd written out on little pieces of paper, and the teacher never knew what the hell was going on. Insane, but fun." Michael braked his car; Claire couldn't see beyond the tinted windows, but she assumed there was some kind of red light. Good thing Michael had special vampire vision, or they'd be exchanging insurance with some other driver right about now. "So this is a big deal for her."
"Yeah, I got that. Speaking of big deals, I heard that you're playing at the TPU theater tomorrow."
The tips of his ears got a little pink, which (even in a vampire) was adorable. "Yeah, apparently they heard about the last three sets at Common Grounds." Those had been pretty spectacular events, Claire had to admit - people jammed in shoulder to shoulder, including an impressive number of vampires all playing nice, at least for the evening. "Not a big deal."
"I heard the tickets were sold out," Claire said smugly. "So there. It is a big deal, dude. Deal with it."
There was a complicated expression on Michael's face - pride, nerves, outright fear. He shook his head and sighed. "You ever feel like your life is kind of out of control?"
"I just went to work for a vampire, was scared by a spider, and got knocked down by a tanning bomb. And that's just my day, not my week."
"Okay, yeah. Point." Michael turned the wheel and hit the brakes again. "You're home, Pinky."
"Don't even think about calling me that."
Except, when she got upstairs and in front of a mirror, she realized that Michael wouldn't be the only one calling her that, or worse. Her face was shiny pink. As if she'd been dipped in blush and then wrapped in plastic. Ugh. When she pressed her fingers against her skin, she left dramatic white spots that slowly filled in again. "I'm going to kill him," she muttered, and slammed the bathroom door, locked it, and flipped on the shower as she glared at her hot pink reflection. "Lock him in a tanning bed. Drive him out in the desert with the top down. Myrnin, you are toast. Burned toast."
It was worse when she had her clothes off; her naturally pale skin was a violent, gut-wrenching contrast to the sunburn on her face. She hadn't realized it before, but she had burns on the tops of her hands and arms, too - anywhere that had been exposed to the blast of light.
Radiation. UV radiation. It didn't really hurt yet, but Claire knew it would, and soon. She showered fast, already uncomfortable with the sting of water on shocked flesh, and then searched her closet in vain for something that wouldn't clash with her new, hot pink color scheme.
Oh, Monica was going to love this like a new puppy. Finally, she put on her bra and panties and flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. She knew she should dry her hair, but she was in too bad of a mood to care. Shiny, pretty hair wasn't going to help at all. And tangled, ratty hair would at least fit her current mood.