I heard from people that only one thing in this world can kill Jalal. Ustara.

Pairing: Simon Basset X Bulbul (Bridgerton X Bulbul crossover)

Author's Note:

Hey everyone! Just a quick heads-up regarding the lore and character changes for this Bulbul x Simon crossover fic:

Binodini: In this version, she is portrayed as an elderly maid rather than her original counterpart.

Content Changes: Please note that the canon elements of sexual assault and rape by Mahendra or Bulbul's husband have been completely removed from this story.

While these specific plot points are altered, the core theme and context remain the same: a powerful devi (or witch, depending on how you look at it) stepping in to protect vulnerable women and deliver justice against abuse.

Hope you enjoy the crossover!

The rain lashed against the high, arched windows of the Thakur’s haveli, a relentless drumbeat that matched the frantic rhythm of Simon Basset’s thoughts. For weeks, the Duke of Hastings—sent by the British Crown to investigate a string of gruesome, unexplained deaths in the Bengal presidency—had felt like a man chasing ghosts.

Every lead died in a wall of terrified silence. The villagers looked through him as if he were made of glass. The local authorities muttered about curses and ancient gods. But Simon was a man of logic, bred in the salons of London, educated at Oxford, and hardened by a life of navigating cold realities. He did not believe in curses. He believed in flesh, bone, and motive.

Yet, as he stood in the grand, decaying ballroom of the haveli, the truth he had just unearthed threatened to shatter every foundation of his rational world.

The candles flickered, casting long, monstrous shadows against the peeling portraits of the Thakur’s lineage. Across the room, standing beside a shattered window where the storm sprayed a fine mist of rain, was the young maid who had been his sole confidante in this godforsaken place.

Only, she wasn’t just a maid.

"You played me for a fool," Simon said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low rumble. He did not raise his pistol, though his hand rested heavily on the grip at his hip. "From the very moment I arrived. The helpful servant giving the clueless Englishman just enough breadcrumbs to keep him looking the wrong way."

The woman turned slowly. The meek, downturned gaze she had worn for weeks was entirely gone. In its place was a chilling, ancient stillness. Her eyes, usually clouded with feigned innocence, burned with a fierce, absolute authority.

"I never lied to you, Simon," she said. Her voice lacked the heavy, subservient dialect she had used before. It was smooth, cultured, and carried the weight of a ruler. "I told you the jungle has secrets. I told you the men who died deserved their fates. You simply chose to look for a man with a blade, rather than a force of nature."

"Do not speak to me of forces of nature!" Simon snapped, taking a sharp step forward, his boots echoing loudly on the marble floor. "I saw you tonight. I saw what you did to that man in the forest. He begged for his life. He called you Thakurian. He called you Devi."

Bulbul—for that was her true name, the child-bride turned myth—let out a soft, humorless laugh that cut through the sound of the thunder. She stepped out of the shadows, the pale moonlight catching the heavy, ornate gold jewelry at her wrists and the deep crimson of her saree.

"He called me by many names because a coward always seeks to label the instrument of his judgment," Bulbul said, her posture rigid and regal. "To the village, I am the reclusive widow who never leaves the haveli. To you, I was the quiet maid who cleaned your linens. But to the men who abuse the vulnerable... I am the only law that matters."

To understand how the Duke of Hastings found himself in the heart of Bengal, debating morality with a living legend, one had to look back to his arrival three months prior.

Simon had accepted the assignment from the Crown out of a desire for distance. London had become suffocating. The endless marriage marts, the whispers regarding his lineage, and the heavy burden of his title had left him restless. When the Foreign Office requested a high-ranking officer of unassailable reputation to investigate the disruption of colonial interests in a remote district, Simon volunteered.

The report had been sparse: Multiple British-aligned local landowners found dead under mysterious circumstances. Local population uncooperative. Suspected insurgent or ritualistic involvement.

When Simon first stepped out of his carriage and beheld the Thakur’s haveli, he felt an immediate sense of unease. It was a sprawling, suffocating fortress of stone and wood, choked by the surrounding jungle. The Thakur himself had fled the region years ago under a cloud of scandal, leaving the estate to his reclusive wife, whom no one ever saw.

On his first night, Simon had requested an audience with the lady of the house. A stern elderly servant named Binodini had delivered the refusal.

"The Thakurian observes strict parda," Binodini had said, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor. "She does not see outsiders. Especially not men of the Crown. Your rooms are prepared in the western wing. Do not cross into the eastern wing."

Simon, accustomed to the rigid etiquette of high society, had merely bowed his head. "I shall respect her privacy, provided her household does not interfere with my investigation."

But the interference began almost immediately—not through actions, but through an oppressive, suffocating silence. The local police inspector, a man named Banerjee, trembled when Simon questioned him about the first victim, a wealthy merchant named Chaterjee.

"A wild animal, My Lord," Banerjee had stammered, wiping sweat from his brow. "The throat was torn. The jungle is dangerous."

"A wild animal does not leave a perfectly severed throat without consuming the prey, Inspector," Simon had replied dryly. "And a wild animal certainly does not arrange the body with flower petals at its feet."

Frustrated by the lack of cooperation, Simon had retreated to the haveli’s courtyard that evening, where he encountered a young maid drawing water from the well. She had looked up in terror, dropping her gaze instantly.

"Forgive me, Sahib," she whispered in broken English.

"Rest easy," Simon said, his tone softening. He was a commanding presence, but he took no pleasure in intimidating servants. "I mean you no harm. What is your name?"

"Bulbul," she murmured.

"Bulbul," Simon repeated, testing the weight of the name. "Tell me, Bulbul... why is everyone in this village so afraid to speak to me? Do they think I mean to harm them?"

The girl hesitated, looking around the empty courtyard before leaning in slightly. "They are not afraid of you, Sahib. They are afraid of her."

"The Thakurian?"

"The Devi," Bulbul corrected, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper. "She watches. She knows who speaks. She protects the village, but she punishes those who bring the outside world here."

It was the first piece of real information Simon had received, and he found himself inexplicably drawn to the girl’s quiet intelligence. Over the next few weeks, Bulbul became his sole anchor in the haveli. She would leave his tea, and in exchange, she would answer his carefully coded questions about the local customs, the history of the Thakur’s family, and the whispers of the village.

The turning point came on a night when the moon was swallowed whole by dark clouds. Simon, unable to sleep, had been pacing the veranda when he spotted a figure gliding across the courtyard toward the iron gates that led to the jungle.

The figure was slender, draped in dark fabric, moving with a supernatural grace that defied the rough terrain.

Curiosity overrode his sense of protocol. Simon grabbed his coat and lantern, slipping out of the haveli to follow her. The jungle was dense, the air thick with humidity and the shrill cries of nocturnal insects. He tracked the figure by the occasional glint of silver in the dark—an anklet or a bracelet catching the faint light.

"Hold!" Simon called out, picking up his pace as the figure ahead slowed near a massive banyan tree.

The figure did not stop. By the time Simon broke through the thick brush into the clearing, the woman was gone. The lantern light swung violently across the gnarled roots of the banyan tree, suddenly illuminating a horrific sight.

A man lay slumped against the trunk. His eyes were wide with a permanent expression of terror, his throat cleanly slit. Fresh blood pooled into the dirt, soaking into a small circle of marigold petals that had been deliberately scattered around his boots.

Simon knelt, checking for a pulse he knew he wouldn't find. The body was still warm.

"Dammit," Simon swore, standing up and scanning the tree canopy. "I know you're there! Show yourself!"

Only the wind answered.

The next morning, the haveli was deadlier than usual in its quietness. Simon sought out Binodini, demanding answers about the dead man, who was identified as a local landowner known for his cruelty toward his tenant farmers’ daughters.

"The Devi has spoken again," Binodini said flatly, her face a mask of stone. "You should leave, Duke Sahib. Before she looks at you."

"I am not intimidated by local superstition, Binodini," Simon said through gritted teeth. "A woman is committing these murders. I saw her silhouette. I want to speak with the Thakurian. Now. No more excuses about parda."

"The Thakurian does not see you," Binodini repeated, turning her back on him.

Frustrated, Simon sought out Bulbul by the kitchens. She looked pale, her hands trembling as she ground spices.

"You look as though you've seen a ghost, Bulbul," Simon said gently, leaning against the doorframe.

"The village is loud today, Sahib," she said, keeping her eyes on the mortar. "They say a bad man was taken by the night. They say the Englishman is getting too close to the fire."

Simon watched her closely. "I am not afraid of fire, Bulbul. But I am worried about you. This house... it feels unsafe. If you know anything—if you are hiding something out of fear—you can tell me. I can protect you. I can take you away from this place."

Bulbul stopped grinding. For a brief second, her shoulders stiffened, and a profound sadness seemed to radiate from her. When she looked up, her eyes were wide and swimming with unshed tears.

"You cannot protect anyone from this house, Duke Sahib," she whispered. "The walls here have teeth."

The escalation was swift. Two nights after the murder in the jungle, Simon was awakened by the sharp, echoing sound of a struggle coming from the eastern wing—the forbidden sector of the haveli.

Disregarding all warnings, Simon grabbed his service pistol and a candle, racing through the labyrinthine corridors. The air grew colder the deeper he went into the forbidden wing. The dust here was thick, the furniture covered in white sheets like resting spirits.

He followed the sound of a muffled groan to a heavy, iron-reinforced door that stood slightly ajar. Pushing it open, Simon raised his pistol.

"Identify yourself!" he commanded.

The candle light flickered across a grisly scene. A man—one of the haveli’s own guards, notorious in the local tavern for his drunken violence—lay on the floor, his life force pooling onto the ancient rugs.

But what caught Simon’s breath was the absence of the killer. The window was wide open, the curtains billowing in the wind. And on the floor, discarded in the rush, was a small silver anklet that Simon recognized all too well. It was the same design he had seen on the maid, Bulbul, just the day before.

"No," Simon murmured, a heavy weight sinking into his chest. "Not her."

He searched the room, but Bulbul was nowhere to be found. Her quarters near the kitchen were empty, her few belongings untouched. She had vanished.

Driven by a mix of anger, betrayal, and a desperate need for answers, Simon marched directly to the grand hall. He did not knock. He did not ask permission. He slammed his fist against the heavy wooden frame of the parda screen that separated the guest area from the Thakurian’s private quarters.

"Madam!" Simon roared. "Your servant is missing. A man is dead in your forbidden wing. The charade ends tonight! Step out from behind this curtain, or by God, I will tear it down myself!"

A tense, suffocating silence followed his outburst. Then, the rustle of heavy silk echoed from behind the screen.

"You are a guest in my home, Duke of Hastings," a voice spoke from behind the silk. It was calm, measured, and entirely unbothered by his rage. "But your presence has become a liability. The guard you found was a wicked man. His debt was paid. The maid has returned to her village. Your investigation is concluded."

Simon stared at the silhouette behind the fabric. The shape was familiar. The voice—though projecting a grander, colder tone—had a cadence that sent a chill down his spine.

"She returned to her village?" Simon asked, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet register. "Without her belongings? Without a word to the man she was helping?"

"She was a servant," the Thakurian replied coldly. "They come and go like the rain. Leave this place, Simon. Return to your grand houses in London. This land does not belong to you, and its justice is not yours to mete out."

Simon didn't answer. He backed away slowly, his eyes never leaving the curtain. He didn't believe a word. In his mind, a dark theory was forming: The Thakurian was the killer. She was using her power to eliminate men who offended her, and she had murdered the innocent maid, Bulbul, to keep her from talking to the British investigator.

He had to prove it.

Simon spent the next forty-eight hours digging into the past, refusing to sleep. If the village wouldn't speak about the present, he would force them to speak about the past.

He cornered Binodini in the old library, blocking her exit.

"Tell me about the Thakurian," Simon demanded, his face haggard, eyes bloodshot. "Tell me about who she was before she became a ghost in this house."

Binodini looked at the desperate, fierce determination in the Duke’s eyes and sighed, her shoulders slumping. "You Englishmen think everything can be solved with a law book. You do not understand what this house did to her."

"Tell me," Simon insisted.

"She was a child," Binodini said, her voice cracking with old grief. "Bulbul was her name. She was barely fourteen when she was married to the old Thakur. He was a monster, Sahib. A cruel man who treated his wives like cattle. His twin brother was no better."

Simon froze. Bulbul. The maid’s name was the Thakurian’s name.

"What happened to her?" Simon whispered.

"The twin brother tried to take her one night," Binodini said, tears finally spilling from her eyes. "The Thakur did nothing but laugh. They locked her in the eastern wing. We thought she would die there. But something changed in that room. The girl died, Sahib. But the Devi woke up."

Binodini looked up at Simon, her gaze hauntingly intense. "The next morning, the twin brother was found dead at the feet of the household goddess. His throat was cut. The Thakur fled the country in terror, leaving the haveli to the wife he had broken. She became the Thakurian. She became the protector of every woman who has no voice in this valley."

The pieces of the puzzle began to spin violently in Simon’s mind. The pattern of the victims—every single one of them was an abuser, a man who preyed on the weak.

Simon knew who the next victim would be. Through his earlier investigations, he had learned of a local tax collector, a brutal man named Das, who had recently beaten his young wife to near death.

That night, Simon did not stay at the haveli. He hid in the shadows outside Das’s estate, his pistol loaded, his heart hammering against his ribs. The storm had returned, a torrential downpour that blurred the line between the earth and the sky.

Around midnight, a figure appeared through the sheet of rain.

It was the dark silhouette from the jungle. She moved effortlessly, a glint of a silver blade caught in the occasional flash of lightning. She bypassed the guards as if she were a ghost, slipping into the courtyard where Das sat drinking alone on his veranda.

As she raised the blade, Simon sprang from the shadows, his boots splashing through the mud.

"Stop!" Simon shouted, leveling his pistol at her. "In the name of the Crown, stop!"

Das screamed, falling backward off his chair, scrambling on his knees in absolute terror. But he wasn't looking at Simon's gun. He was looking at the woman.

"Thakurian!" Das shrieked, pressing his back against the wall, his hands raised in frantic supplication. "Mercy! Devi, have mercy! I will change! I will give her the gold! Please!"

The woman paused, her blade hovering inches from Das's throat. Slowly, she turned her head toward Simon.

The rain washed over her face, pulling away the dark cloth that covered her head. In the flashing lightning, Simon’s breath left him entirely.

The maid. The Thakurian. The Devi.

The face of the innocent girl who had served him tea was the exact same face as the terrifying spirit of vengeance standing before him.

"Bulbul," Simon whispered, his hand shaking as he held the pistol. "It was always you. There was no maid. There was no reclusive widow. You played every part."

"I told you, Simon," Bulbul said, her voice cutting through the thunder with terrifying clarity. "The truth changes nothing."

"You have to stop," Simon pleaded, stepping closer, his heart tearing between his duty as an officer of the law and the profound, tragic realization of her suffering. "If you kill him, I have to arrest you. I cannot let you take another life. Come back with me. Let the courts handle him."

Bulbul looked down at the whimpering Das, then back at Simon. A look of deep, sorrowful pity crossed her features.

"Your courts protect men like him, Duke of Hastings," she said softly. "Your laws look at a bruised woman and ask what she did to provoke it. My law does not ask."

With a movement so swift the human eye could barely track it, Bulbul turned. The blade flashed. Das let out a choked gasp, slumping forward into the dirt.

"No!" Simon cried, pulling the trigger.

The gunshot roared through the night, but the bullet struck only the wooden pillar where she had stood a millisecond before. Bulbul had already melted into the darkness, her red saree vanishing into the dense jungle like a fading ember.

From the shadows of the trees, her final warning echoed back to him over the sound of the rain.

"Leave this place, Simon Basset. Go home to your world of polite lies. This valley belongs to the broken... and I am their keeper."

Simon slowly lowered his pistol, the rain washing the gunpowder residue from his hands. He looked at the dead man at his feet, then out into the vast, untamable jungle. For the first time in his life, the Duke of Hastings realized that there were some debts human law could never settle, and some legends that could never be contained.

Likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated.

A REQUEST BY @chatpateblogs (Somebody pls get her brain checked in a lab! Gurl how do you even think of such crossovers?? 😭)