Someone Came With Her, Part 14

Fairweather shakes his head.  “It's a big waste of his potential, if you ask me.  Now, where was I?”

	You motion at the small stack of papers.  “The forms I filled  out.”

	He sucks air between his teeth. “Right, I got a bit sidetracked there.  Let's see what we have here...”

	Deftly he levitates the papers into the air, examining them with a thoughtful look on his face.

	“'Sonora.'  Not sure why, but it seems to fit you.  It sounds--” Somehow you know what word was coming next: pretty.

	Something flickers across his features. It's hard to tell, but it looks an awful lot like embarrassment.  It's the first time you've seen him look that way, in fact.

	A childish part of you takes faint satisfaction at seeing him off-balance.  Up until now, it's been outright painful how many times you've slipped up compared to him.  Maybe things will start to even out.

	“Oh, never mind,” he says, recovering quickly but not completely.  “Anyway, um...you're from Manehattan?  What sort of job did you have before you came here?”

	“Like I said on the form, nothing that would really matter in this line of work...” You let out a tiny nervous laugh. “Shoot, that sounded kinda stupid.  Not exactly a ringing endorsement of my resume.”

	That raises an eyebrow from him.  “You've already proved a lot by showing up for this interview in the first place.  Don't put yourself in a box—it's a bad habit, and an even worse habit for anyone who wants to use magic.”

	Before you can respond, the frantic gallop of hooves sounds from around the corner.  One of Fairweather's friends—Big Iron, if you remember right--stands before the two of you, his brawny, powerful form shaking with each gasping breath.  Thick beads of sweat rolls down his caramel fur and drips onto the cool wooden planks of the porch.  To say he looks exhausted would be like calling Death Valley “warm.”

	“Fairweather!” he cries.  “Trail Heads!  Up north! Old Washington's ranch!  Three of them!”

	Fairweather's lips tighten, his eyes narrowing.  “Again?”

	Big Iron slides pitifully to the ground and takes a few more gulps of air.  “Yes!  Found him...on the other side of town. Explained to me...what happened. He's too frightened...to go back.”

	Fairweather facehoofs.  “He never learns, doesn't he?” He shoots a glance at you.  “This might be a good learning opportunity.  Feel free to tag along.”

	You don't have much of an idea as to what he's talking about, but hey.  It's an opportunity to see the Spellbreakers in action.

	“I might be interested,” you say.  “But what do you mean by 'Trail Heads?'”

	“Don't blame you for not knowing about them,” Fairweather explains as he straps on a canteen and an extra saddlebag.  “They're a species of magical pest that started showing up recently.  The best way I can describe them is, well...how would you put it, Iron?”

	Big Iron has finally caught most of his breath, as well as some of his effete demeanor.  “Picture, if you will, a crude stone sculpture of a snarling, disembodied head.  Envision it with a most dreadful set of incisors, and an even more dreadful temperament.  Now imagine that this sculpture has come to life, and is quite fixated on making a meal out of you.”

	You give Fairweather a doubtful look.  “Are you sure I should be along for this?  It doesn't sound like a job for beginners.”

	“Big Iron's just being melodramatic,” explains Fairweather, adjusting his saddlebag's straps.  “As vicious as Trail Heads are, they aren't any smarter than the rocks they're made out of.  Besides, they're never much larger than a bowling ball. If any get too close, just kick them away.”

	“If they're so harmless, why'd they scare someone off his own ranch?” you counter.

	“To a lot of folks, nothing's scarier than what you don't understand,” sighs Fairweather.  “There's been an explosion of nasty new monsters out in Appleloosa, but I can't get anyone interested in learning about them.”