Zydeco Queen and the Creole Fairy Courts

by Cutter, Leah

  * * *

  Francine talked with Amos, Claire, Harley, and the other musicians for a while, making battle plans now that they’d seen the field, talking about the order they’d stand in, the songs they’d play.

  All the while, out of the corner of her eye, Francine could see covered bodies being carried away. The Seelie had lost some people, but the Unseelie had lost more.

  The sickening scent of burnt flesh and the tang of ozone still tinged the air.

  The Seelie dancers strode out once the field had been cleared. Francine recognized Brooks in the front of the line. He looked fully recovered, his skin clear again and his eyes bright. His outfit barely covered him; really, it was just a couple of golden straps across his chest, and a few fluttering ends that covered the other important bits.

  If they’d been meeting under different circumstances, Francine might have enjoyed the view.

  Then the Unseelie dancers went out, skipping lightly, almost floating through the air.

  Francine bit her lip with worry. The Seelie dancers all looked more muscular.

  However, Erastus had come closer to the front line of the trees, looking out over the field, and he now stood grinning.

  All the dancers together stamped their feet, raising a strong, steady rhythm. Without warning, the Unseelie took to the air, spinning and leaping.

  It took Francine a moment to realize that some of the dancers had moved past the Seelie, and now they were surrounded.

  The Unseelie danced over each other, throwing their partners at the Seelie, bowling them over. Dancers kicked, scratched, and clawed each other, a grotesque parody of a dance.

  It was obvious the Seelie dancers had only trained with each other, blocking and dodging the heavy blows they tried to give. They were completely unprepared for the Unseelie using a punch as a starting point to climb over the Seelie, kicking them in the head on the way back down.

  When a Seelie dancer did land a punch, it could be devastating. Blood flew, as did teeth. Bones shattered with a brittle sound.

  But they kept dancing.

  Francine didn’t see Brooks fall. However, at the end of the battle, he was carried away.

  Though the officials declared the dance a tie, Francine knew the Unseelie had won a slight advantage.

  She told herself that was good.

  * * *

  Pre-stage jitters walked up and down Francine’s spine, but she refused to shiver again. The pit of her stomach rested uneasy, as if she’d had too much coffee and not enough food. At least the air was finally clean again.

  The other musicians showed the same strain, tapping fingers and toes, bouncing up and down, playing small riffs and bursts of melody.

  Erastus and Julius came up as they assembled.

  “Make us proud,” Erastus told them.

  Papa had always told Francine the same thing.

  Finally, the signal to approach the field came. Francine walked to the point at the edge of the woods, standing proud and tall. The other musicians lined up behind her. Harley started a steady beat on the washboard. They marched out to the field in a V formation with Francine in the apex.

  The Seelie came out from their trees, but they played parade music, bopping as they marched, rolling out into a loose line.

  Pierre stood at the center of their group. Papa was to his right. They all wore clean white shirts, shining with fairy light, and vests in every color Francine had ever imagined.

  Papa looked—grim, Francine decided. His eyes still held a twinkle, though, as if he was enjoying this. His vest was as white as his shirt, lined with black piping, just a little bit of decoration to make him stand out. But it was all he needed.

  Francine finally picked out Uncle Rene. He stood a few lines back, wearing a powder-blue vest. He’d lost weight, Francine saw. A lot of weight. But he looked healthy enough now.

  When Pierre lifted his fiddle, he glanced at Francine, as if he were going to lead.

  Francine had to laugh.

  “Glad you haven’t lost your place in the court, Master Fiddler,” she called out bitterly.

  Before Pierre could get off a single note, Francine and her band attacked. No scales or easing in, just a full-on rush of war music.

  The sound slammed into the Seelie, and they scrambled to keep up.

  Francine almost felt sorry for them.

  The Seelie stayed in their loose line, playing together well. Francine once looked beyond them to the court that stood just under the trees, bobbing their heads.

  But they didn’t have Francine’s anger, or her training.

  Francine began sending volleys, strings of notes with blunted heads whizzing into the other musicians, making them drop the beat, lose their rhythm. They valiantly tried to play through, so Francine aimed a little closer, searing through clothes and singeing hair.

  At the same time, Claire and Harley kept up the beat, a defensive curtain that protected them all.

  The Seelie line took a step back.

  Then they rallied, as Francine knew they would. They’d talked about it before the battle.

  She let them get two steps closer before she floored at least half the Seelie musicians with the first concentrated thrust, all the music from the band focused through her.

  And Francine was just getting warmed up.

  The Seelie got off a few rounds, easily deflected by Harley on the washboard, the unyielding beat blunting and turning them.

  Then Francine attacked again, a solid wedge of music, forcing the Seelie back, step by step, across the field.

  Papa tried to rally the Seelie as they faltered, moving in front of Pierre to face Francine directly. His eyes were no longer soft. Sweat gleamed along his forehead.

  Power pushed into Francine as the music swelled behind her. She remembered destroying the false images Julius had shown her.

  A cool voice inside Francine told her she could do this. Set him on fire.

  Francine focused all her music on Papa, all her anger and frustration, throwing out sizzling notes.

  Papa’s clothes burned, as did his hair.

  But Papa wouldn’t stop.

  He kept playing against her, fiddling like mad, protecting himself and trying to attack.

  Finally, Francine sent a volley at Papa’s hands. It wove in and under his defenses. He let go of his fiddle, surprised. Francine kept playing, turning her attention to Pierre, ignoring the fact that Papa had suddenly grinned at her.

  Francine didn’t want to admit it, but Papa was proud of her.

  * * *

  Without question, the musical round had gone to the Unseelie. They had a few injuries—nothing bad, a few scorched fingers—while half the Seelie had to be carried from the field.

  Francine stayed in the center of the field, watching, working to keep all emotion off her face. The air still buzzed with the notes they’d played.

  At least all the musicians she’d attacked were still alive.

  When the last were gone, she turned and marched away, head held high, leading the rest of the Unseelie off the field.

  Only when Francine reached the camp off the battlefield did she realize just how exhausted she was. Clammy sweat stuck to her back. Her fingers cramped and ached. At the same time, she was filled with nervous energy, unable to sit down and rest. She wandered through the groups, the dancers stretching to keep their muscles from cramping up, the priests and priestesses polishing their soot-covered ropes of jewels.

  The other musicians were either passed out on the grass or as wired as she was, tapping foot or fingers, still rocking with that unheard beat.

  Francine sat down next to Amos, who handed her a smooth twig. The pair of them sat and beat out complicated rhythms. It was oddly soothing, and Francine felt herself start to relax.

  The roar of the warriors drew Francine back up to her feet. She swayed, but made herself stand up straight. She couldn’t crash. Not yet. She had to watch the warriors take the field.

  Unseelie warriors covered a
third of the field. Francine hadn’t realized they had that many warriors. The Seelie warriors covered just as much. If she had to guess, she’d say at least one hundred in each army.

  She wondered if they weren’t all from the court—if others, from the outskirts and wilds, had joined them. If this was a way for them to gain power and rank.

  The Seelie warriors looked small in comparison to the Unseelie.

  Francine hoped it wasn’t a trick, like the Unseelie dancers.

  All the warriors wore the same types of outfits, though the Seelie wore both red and black paint with their cloaks and claws.

  The war cry of the Unseelie made all the hair on the back of Francine’s neck stand up and sent cascades of goose pimples across her shoulders. She couldn’t help but take a few steps back.

  A stomping beat began in the back ranks, making its way forward.

  Francine recognized the song, just from the rhythm: It was the same beat as the war music Erastus had her play for the court, when they’d declared war.

  The Unseelie lost even more of their human appearance, turning fey and deadly.

  Francine knew the Seelie went through the same transformation. She made herself stay and watch.

  Growls, howls, and clicking claws drove the beat. Francine’s fingers itched to play her fiddle. She knew it was strictly forbidden. She still found herself stomping the ground in time, quietly snapping her fingers, unable to stop herself from joining in.

  Francine cheered when the warriors surged forward, thrust by the swelling sound.

  Her joy died quickly.

  Though the dancers had physically attacked each other, their battle still had a form, a context, a dance.

  This was pure war, not violence refined.

  Pierre had warned her. So had Papa.

  The Fée were not human.

  Even showing more of their animal form, they were too beautiful to look away from. They tore into each other, not holding back. Snarling growls and pained yelps rang out from the field.

  More than one death keen set Francine’s hackles up.

  No one on the sidelines could tell who was winning. The figures were too intertwined to be distinguishable, and the warriors all dressed alike. The battle shifted toward one camp, then the other.

  Francine caught sight of a huge boar. The smooth power of his muscles and his mottled skin told her it must be Julius. He grappled with a large tree-man. Julius caught hold of his opponent’s arm, put up one foot, and pulled.

  Julius fell back, surprised, when the arm came off in his hoof. The heat of battle still on him, he hit his enemy again with his feet, causing the tree man to topple over.

  With a hard swallow, Francine sternly told herself not to vomit.

  When the boar brought the arm up and tore off a piece of muscle to eat, all the blood drained from Francine’s head. She swayed where she stood.

  Brooks had joked about the Unseelie eating their young.

  Maybe he hadn’t been teasing.

  The spell finally broke and Francine could turn away. She wandered, not seeing where she was going, getting as far from the field as she could.

  A complex beat attracted her, and Francine found herself standing near the other musicians. Some now slept on the sides. She threw herself on the ground and tried to force the images from the battle out of her mind.

  Cries, screams, and growls from the battle still waved through the air. Francine curled herself into a small ball as if trying to protect herself.

  The Unseelie had been good to Francine. They’d trained her well—she couldn’t help but remember Papa’s proud smile.

  Francine shivered again.

  You didn’t eat your own kind.

  * * *

  When a rousing cry went up from the battleground, Francine uncurled herself and made herself stand up and join the rest of the Unseelie at the edge of the field. She still felt exhausted, and her stomach hurt as if she’d been beaten. Her mouth tasted of soot. She held herself stiffly, knowing that tears were waiting to ambush her.

  Four of the Unseelie warriors carried Queen Yvette in a crude cage of bamboo. The cage swayed as they danced—it wasn’t very well constructed, just loosely bound with strips of palm leaves. The queen could have escaped at any time.

  But Queen Yvette stayed seated, right where she was. She was bound by honor to be the prisoner of the Unseelie for the next one hundred and one days.

  The queen held her head high despite the jostling. She looked right through Francine as if she didn’t recognize her.

  “So high and mighty,” Julius said quietly. “We’re going to show her what’s what.”

  Francine jumped. She hadn’t seen him approach. She glanced at him. His red body paint had been smeared, and added to, with blood. His face was mostly human, but his teeth were still too long; his eyes, too wild.

  “We will,” Francine said, making herself agree. However, she also made a promise to herself to visit the queen in her prison when she could. Maybe even sneak her something to make her stay more comfortable. It wouldn’t be too hard.

  Julius gave Francine a toothy grin, then moved on.

  Francine held herself very still, keeping a smile on her face.

  Julius moved like a panther.

  She couldn’t afford for him to turn against her. She shivered despite herself, remembering the tree-man and his blood.

  As the warriors left the field, Francine looked over at the Seelie camp. Pierre, Papa, and Uncle Rene stood with the other musicians in a knot, staring at the queen.

  Francine didn’t wave goodbye. She couldn’t. All that blood the fairies had spilled stood between them.

  Papa did catch Francine’s eye. He nodded.

  Francine nodded back.

  Anger and grief fought inside her.

  The grief won and she turned away, eyes stinging, following the fairies she’d chosen back through the portal, to the dark woods and wild lands.

  Chapter Eleven

  A party had already started in the Grand Hall by the time Francine stepped through the gate. Amos, Harley, Claire, and the other musicians stood on the raised stage, playing a fast, rocking song. The dancers stayed in a tight group at the foot of the stage, leaping into the air and twirling each other as if they’d never suffered a defeat.

  The rest of the court mingled and chatted, growling and cheering. Flutes of golden wine passed from hand to hand, as well as berries of all colors, bright and potent.

  Francine didn’t feel like playing, dancing, or talking. Despite the driving music, her feet felt leaden. Even the cool evening air couldn’t revive her. She was happy the Unseelie had won, but too much had happened for that joy to be pure.

  Slowly, Francine made her way to the edge of the platform, saying hello to a few members of court before stepping onto the forest trail.

  Before Francine took three steps, Julius appeared in front of her.

  “Good evening,” he said gravely. He’d wiped most of the paint and blood from his torso, though he hadn’t dressed again in one of his suits. His face and teeth were mostly human, but his eyes remained Fée—black and wild.

  Francine stopped herself from jumping when he reached out to touch her elbow.

  “You did well today, ma chérie.”

  “Thanks. So did…so did the warriors,” Francine made herself say.

  “We just cleaned up, as Erastus asked us to.” Julius smiled with obvious pride.

  Francine felt her stomach churn and swallowed quickly. She was not about to be sick in front of him.

  “Not gonna join the party?” Julius asked, pointing to the raised platform with his chin.

  “I just—I can’t. I’m exhausted,” Francine said, which was the truth.

  “I understand,” Julius said nodding.

  “But you do need to get here early tomorrow. The king wants you to attend Yvette’s imprisonment.”

  Francine slowly nodded.

  “Of course.”

  “The king wants you to
help fetter her,” Julius further explained.

  “Why me?” Francine asked. For all her power, she was still a new comer to the court.

  “You’ll see,” Julius said with a soft smile—the softest Francine had seen in a while.

  “Go. Sleep. Talk with the trees. Be back here tomorrow before noon, yes?”

  “Okay.”

  As Francine turned to go, Julius stopped her, one tentative hoof on her shoulder.

  “You made me proud today, darling.”

  “Thank you.”

  Francine knew she needed to say something more. She was so tired. The words came slowly.

  “It was your teaching.”

  “Thank you,” Julius said. “But it was still your first battle.”

  Francine suddenly swayed, remembering the stench of burnt flesh, the bodies carried from the field, an Unseelie fox licking the blood off his hands.

  “Yes. Go,” Julius said, pushing Francine’s shoulder, setting her to move again.

  “See you tomorrow.”

  Francine nodded and left. She didn’t run—she didn’t dare—the paths were never that forgiving. Still, she made her way as quickly as she could to the grove she called her own.

  Before Francine had called out, the trees bent over, letting her catch at their branches and pulling her near.

  It wasn’t a soft embrace, or remotely human.

  Francine stayed with her face pressed to the unyielding tree trunk, leaking quiet tears until the whispering of the leaves soothed her enough to turn away. She only had to crawl a foot to reach the nest the tree had made for her.

  Despite her exhaustion, racing thoughts kept Francine from sleeping.

  What was she going to do?

  She’d thought she hated Papa, but she really didn’t. She’d thought she loved the Unseelie, but now she wasn’t sure.

  And what did the king want with her in the morning?

  The trees had no answers for her. Neither did the wind.

  The ache in Francine’s heart felt as hard as if a weight pressed against her chest. She would give anything, even her precious woods, to talk with Mama one more time, to get her advice.

  Instead, there was only restless sleep and unresolved dreams.

  * * *

  Fairies filled the floor of the Grand Hall, pressed tightly together, all turned toward the far end, waiting. They wore somber robes that dragged along the grass, brilliant gowns that swooped out around them, suits cut tight and fitted to show off broad chests and shoulders. Many of the women wore their hair piled high, with jewels, flowers, and fairy dust woven in.