Chapter Text
It had been almost a century since Dara set out on his impossible mission to track down the ifrit and their scattered slave vessels. He’d seen many sights in his travels, wonders of modern technology that rivaled the great works of Daevabad. Airships, trains, steamboats, and machines that seemingly allowed you to communicate with people on the other side of the world. Most recently, the rare automobile. It appeared that humans were not in desperate need of slave magic, they had magic all of their own. Magic he begrudgingly marveled at.
While he found his first slave vessel not far from Cairo and his first ifrit closer to Tehran, he’d been beckoned to a place called Paris to retrieve an emerald plated bangle. The people there were mostly pink and spoke in a language that made Dara’s tongue sore. He hadn’t particularly cared for that city or the sweet scent of their food that lingered in nearly every street.
Now the city called “Kyoto” Dara had enjoyed. Every building was pleasing to the eye, people moved with urgency and their language had been easy enough to pick up. He’d tracked down both a slave vessel and an ifrit there. While he was pleased to have had such a productive visit, it was concerning just how far the ifrit’s reach extended. It seemed they'd journeyed far and wide over their centuries.
But for the seemingly endless life of him, Dara could not fathom why on earth anyone would journey here.
London.
It was a grim city. The buildings were uniform, the roads uneven, the people pallid and the streets swimming in a smokey fog. He would have preferred the sugary scents of France to whatever this odor was.
In each place he visited Dara had taken to collecting a gift for his Banu Nahida. Nahri was likely still bound to Daevabad and while they would probably never go on the adventures she’d longed for, he could give her little pieces of the world. Like the jade lion from Kyoto or the woven basket from a village in Prussia. Here, though.
Creator, there is nothing worth getting her from here…
He could always resort to his backup gift: books. He knew from her letters she quite enjoyed them. Then again, this tongue (which he was quickly becoming acquainted with), sounded even worse than the one in Paris. It was harsh and slippery but also as blunt as a rusty zulfiqar. He couldn’t imagine what reading it would be like (particularly because he couldn’t read anything but Divasti, and that was only with what little tutoring the Princess had given him).
But gift-giving was a problem for another time. London, it seemed, had recently been wracked by six grisly murders. The killer had yet to be apprehended and was apparently gifted at evading the authorities. The level of brutality and high quantity of victims in such a short period reminded Dara of one of his masters, a man with a grudge against his brothers. Each Dara had slaughtered in increasingly barbaric ways. Perhaps this killer had the slave vessel and was doing something similar. It was a slim lead, but if Dara had learned anything from his time seeking retribution, that was as good a place as any to start.
And where was the best place to start tracing a lead? Wherever tongues flowed freely and liquor was cheap. Taverns. Dara would sit in the shadows, overlooked by the human eye, and listen patiently for any whispers of the rumor he was chasing.
But the drinking establishments here proved practically useless. The behavior inside was solemn, tired, and angry. Inhibitions were lowered but more so were spirits. The aim of this tavern in particular seemed to be drinking yourself into a half-dazed stupor. Not that Dara could blame them.
If I suffered the misfortune of living here, I would not want to be sober.
Dara stalked out of the tavern in a poor mood. If a bar wouldn’t bring him loose lips then he’d have to find a pleasure house. Men were often careless there and let their words get away with them. Dara would detest it, but he could sit in an alcove and listen closely for any secrets that might be divulged by some fool trying to impress a fair maiden.
Growing frustrated with the packed streets, Dara jostled his way through the crowd, nearly compromising his turban in the process. He was sorely tempted to transform into the wind and avoid all of this unneeded physical contact, but he did not wish to risk missing out on any useful gossip.
As he continued searching for a pleasure house, the smokey fog became denser, as did the crowds. The uniform buildings decreased in size and the already uneven streets featured more holes and divots. Dara, feeling as though he may quite literally combust in aggravation, bolted to the far side of the street, where things seemed less crowded. He caught the breath he didn’t technically lose (but valued nonetheless) and released a grumble of irritation. It was bad enough visiting human cities and feeling like a wraith amidst the people, but here it was worse. Here he was in constant contact and couldn’t even dodge out of their way. There was simply no room.
He also didn’t care for the way the physical contact had resulted in eyes lingering on him longer than he was used to. It was harder to dismiss his existence when everyone was nearly shoulder to shoulder.
“You’re a different lookin’ one.”
Dara turned at the sound of the female voice. In a doorway was a woman who almost made his jaw drop. She was beautiful - staggeringly so. She had skin slightly fairer than his and large dark eyes, framed by thick lashes. Her lips were painted a ruby red and tilted up at the corners in an alluring smirk. Hair was piled high on her head and tumbled down around her face in ebony waves.
Then there was her clothing - or lack thereof. She was dressed unlike any woman he’d encountered here yet. A scarlet dress that fell just beneath her knees with a neckline that left little to the imagination. She took a step closer to him, letting the shawl around her arms drop just slightly to reveal her shoulders.
If she wouldn’t forget his face in a matter of seconds he may have blushed in embarrassment. It was inappropriate for him to gawk at a woman so freely.
But she didn’t seem to forget and she didn’t seem to mind. Instead, she only stepped closer.
“You aren’t from around here, judging by those clothes,” she smiled, tugging at his pine green jacket. The woman’s eyes danced with amusement. “I wonder if you’d let me help you out of them…”
Dara pursed his lips, shrugging off her hand.
He’d found it apparently. A pleasure house.
Dara pushed past the woman and started towards the door behind her.
The inside was lit only by the gentle glow of the setting sun and the oil lamps hanging on the walls. Many women, in similar dress, occupied what appeared to be a lobby. Some were at tables with multiple men, playing cards, sharing a drink, or even lounging in their laps. One woman tugged a man up a set of stairs to the far left of the room.
Dara spotted a bar with a few vacant stools. He could take a place there and wait-
“You’re hurting my feelings.”
Dara looked over his shoulder to see the woman from outside pouting at him. He exhaled as she placed a delicate hand on his shoulder, her lips spreading in a grin.
“You’re very warm… not to mention strong.”
Dara peeled her fingers off of him. “No, thank you,” he enunciated. Surely she would forget him, now that he’d officially dismissed her.
He went to the bar, taking a seat on a stool towards the end. He folded his hands on the slick, wooden surface and patiently-
“I’ll have you know that I’m the crown jewel of this establishment.”
Dara turned, a mixture of frustration and confusion churning through him. She was back? She remembered him? This was certainly interesting, and potentially dangerous. He opened his mouth to turn her away again but thought better. This woman likely overheard a great many secrets. If she remembered him, then he could ask her whatever questions he wished. He wouldn’t need to eavesdrop or sit around and wait for information to fall from a stranger’s lips.
And the sooner he got this information the sooner he could get out of this abysmal city.
“Alright, jewel, you’ve convinced me,” Dara said, spinning on his stool to face her.
She smiled triumphantly and looked over Dara’s shoulder. “Clara, I need a room!”
A sturdy looking woman with bronze curls behind the bar offered a nod and selected a brass key off of a hook on the wall. Many more of the same fashion hung beside it, each labeled with a number plate.
Clara handed a key to the woman. “Number six, Lilla,” she said, eyes sweeping over Dara. “Well spotted, as usual.”
Dara quirked a brow, confused by her meaning, but “Lilla” only bowed her head and accepted the key. Her slender fingers grabbed Dara’s wrist as she pulled him off of his stool and started for the left side of the room. Much like the man he had seen moments ago, Dara was tugged up the stairs.
They came to a narrow hallway lit with more oil lamps, sconced into the walls. Down the hall were many numbered doors and from them, Dara could hear all manner of noises. Oh, yes, this was a pleasure house indeed. Lilla glanced at him over her shoulder and smiled that devilish smile again, mistaking the satisfied expression on his face.
“Clara’s got the best brothel in the East End, sir. Real fancy with proper heat and lighting. Nice beds too.”
“How fortunate for me,” Dara said.
“For us, love,” amended Lilla.
They arrived at a door with a copper “8” nailed into it. Lilla inserted her key in the lock and pushed it open.
She gestured to the warmly lit room within. “After you, sir.”
Dara entered and found the room to be similar to everything else he’d seen in London. Cramped, dim, and dismal, with the exception of a rather plush looking bed that took up nearly half of the room. Dara heard the door click as Lilla shut it behind them.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she said, busying herself with the lanterns mounted on the walls.
Dara took a seat on the bed.
“I’m Lilla. What are you called, sir?”
“Dara.”
“Mmm, Dara,” she purred, facing him. Lilla let her shawl fall to the floor. “What brings you to Whitechapel of all places?”
Not wanting her to disrobe any further, Dara decided to get straight to the point.
“Are you familiar with the string of murders that have taken place recently?”
The blood drained from Lilla's face and Dara briefly wondered if he’d said something offensive. She shifted her weight from foot to foot.
“Am I familiar?” she seethed.
“Yes,” Dara said slowly.
“Are you a policeman?”
“Um - no.” Dara didn’t think he was.
“You came for a laugh then? Thought you were funny asking a girl if she knew about the Leather Apron?”
Dara’s brows furrowed. He could be funny on occasion but judging by her tone and the set of her jaw she was not finding him so.
Lilla turned on her heel, marching the brief distance to the door. Dara released a discontented growl of irritation and conjured a dagger. He threw it at the door, wedging it just in the seam of the opening. Lilla froze.
Pleased with himself, Dara prepared to press forward.
Lilla whirled on him. From the top of her head, two powerful, black horns grew. Her eyes blazed and her rounded ears elongated into points. The nails on her fingers grew sharp as a rukh’s talons.
Dara’s silver bow materialized in his hand and in a heartbeat he was aiming an arrow at her chest. A moment ago Lilla had been quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon, now she was a creature from a nightmare.
This at least explained why she could see him. She wasn’t human.
But as Dara drew back his arrow her expression was one of terror. Shame fell over him. The fear in her eyes awakened old demons. Perhaps it was a trick, perhaps he was making a mistake, but as Lilla sank to her knees, shielding her face with her hands, Dara lowered his bow.
“What are you?” he demanded. “Some sort of shaitan?”
Her hands still shielding her face, Lilla answered. “I’m a cambion. Half succubus on my mother’s side. My father was a Jew who fled the pogroms! I’m begging you, sir, please don’t hurt me!” she whimpered, nails and horns retracting.
Half? Creator, when will the cross-breeding end…
Dara slung his bow on his back with a defeated sigh. He felt quite stupid. He’d rather overreacted to this defenseless, little - what had she said she was?
“Half what?” he asked. When she didn’t move he spoke again. “Get up. I won’t hurt you.”
Lilla’s arm swept out, in her hand the dagger that Dara had wedged in the doorframe. She nearly cut his stomach, but Dara caught her wrist deftly, wrenching the knife from her grasp and shoving her towards the floor. She released a stream of what Dara recognized to be swears and clambered to her feet, straightening her skirts.
“Half succubus,” she said as though it were obvious. “A demoness disguised as a beautiful woman that lures you into her bed and then kills you.”
Dara blinked. “You’re a qarina?”
“Haven’t heard that one before,” she mumbled. “And I’ve been called many things, mind you.”
Dara knew of this type of creature, but as far as he'd heard, they only visited their victims in their dreams, leaving the unfortunate man drained and fatigued in the morning. Apparently, in London, they were monsters that killed men under the guise of pleasure workers.
This is truly a Creator-forsaken land.
The letter he would write Nahri about this place was getting longer and longer…
“What are you?” Lilla echoed, folding her arms.
“A daeva.”
“Come again?”
“A daeva. A being of fire.”
Lilla’s head tilted to the side. “You don’t look like you’re made of fire.” A wicked grin spread on her lips. “You look like you’re made of finer stuff.”
Dara blanched. He wouldn’t be falling into her bed any time soon.
“Where are you from?”
“You’d know it as Persia,” Dara said, straightening his turban so it covered his ears again.
“How come you speak English then?”
The corner of Dara’s lip lifted in a grimace. “You pick up tongues quickly after centuries of having to learn so many.”
“Centuries?” she gawked.
Dara waved an errant hand. “I have questions for you and if you answer them, I can ensure you are handsomely rewarded.”
Lilla’s eyes brightened as she crossed to the bed, lounging on it comfortably. Her movements reminded Dara of a cat. Perhaps she had more in common with the qarinas than she knew.
“Questions about Jack?”
“Jack?” Dara said, arching a dark brow.
“Yeah, the bloke who has been murdering us fallen women, ” said Lilla with a dramatic flourish of her fingers.
“His name is Jack? Does he have any titles?”
“No, his name isn’t Jack. That’s what he’s named himself.”
“Is this man named Jack or not?” Dara asked, growing impatient.
“Blimey, we don’t know his real name. We call him lots of things. The Whitechapel Murderer. The Leather Apron. He named himself Jack the Ripper in his letters though.” Lilla shuddered slightly.
“He has written letters?”
“Oh, yeah, they’ve shown us three in the papers.” Lilla paused and Dara saw that clever smile spread on her lips again. “You out for him?”
“I’m out for something he might have ,” Dara clarified.
“Well, he’s gone and killed my girls. He’s got a real taste for preying on us.” A fierce sort of malice flickered in her eyes, and for a moment Dara expected her to transform again, but instead, she said: “And I’d like to take him to bed for it.”
Silence hung in the air, so thick you could cut it with a knife. Dara let his racing mind catch up to his thoughts. So this murderer was targeting the women of pleasure houses. Women like Lilla.
If that was the case, Lilla likely knew the victims and judging by her vigor, everything about the murders. Everything about the area, too. Even better - Dara’s end goal aligned with hers. He wanted the slave vessel that this Jack may be wielding, and she wanted Jack dead.
Not to mention the time he would save with a guide that could actually see him... The Creator was truly smiling upon Dara in this dreadful city.