Cillian Darcy: Clockwork Angel/Transcript

Prolouge
Cillian is chasing Lorcan downstairs as his story may have ended and Lorcan's story is beginning soon. Jenny Edwards Elaine Boyack appeared. In the living room, Cillian shows the others his brother.
 * Cillian Darcy: I'm gonna catch you Lorcan!
 * Lorcan Darcy: Oh no you won't!!
 * Elaine Boyack: Honestly, Cillian! Your science experiment?!
 * Jenny Edwards: Elaine, Please.
 * Cillian Darcy: Jenny, Elaine, this is my brother, Lorcan Darcy. He's the temporary Cillian Darcy.
 * Lorcan Darcy: It's nice to meet you.
 * Jenny Edwards: Well how did you came here?
 * Lorcan Darcy: Oh. I transported here from that closet from another dimension.
 * Cillian Darcy: Yeah, He and I are on an mission to find our sister, Lilly Darcy.
 * Lorcan Darcy: It's the prologue of my story. The exciting middle story.
 * Cillian Darcy: and mine has an epilogue but we can share. right Lorcan?
 * Lorcan Darcy: Sure. Man, I'm also a storyteller. I can tell you all the story in the living room.


 * Zac Matthews: This place is not that bad, Lorcan.


 * Ryan Matthews: Yeah we're not that bad to you.
 * Lorcan Darcy: Cool. Well i have a story.
 * Peter Ingham: Tell us.
 * Lorcan Darcy: Okay.... My story begins a very long time ago.

London, April 1878.

The demon exploded in a shower of ichor and guts.

Cillian Darcy jerked back the dagger he was holding, but it was too late. The viscous acid of the demon’s blood had already begun to eat away at the shining blade. He swore and tossed the weapon aside; it landed in a filthy puddle and commenced smoldering like a doused match. The demon itself, of course, had vanished—dispatched back to whatever hellish world it had come from, though not without leaving a mess behind.
 * Cillian Darcy: JEM!

But there was no answer to Cillian's shout; his hunting partner had been standing behind him in the damp and crooked street a few moments before, guarding his back, Cillian was positive, but now Cillian was alone in the shadows. He frowned in annoyance—it was much less fun showing off without Jem to show off to. He glanced behind him, to where the street narrowed into a passage that gave onto the black, heaving water of the Thames in the distance. Through the gap Cillian could see the dark outlines of docked ships, a forest of masts like a leafless orchard. No Jem there; perhaps he had gone back to Narrow Street in search of better illumination. With a shrug Cillian headed back the way he had come.

Narrow Street cut across Limehouse, between the docks beside the river and the cramped slums spreading west toward Whitechapel. It was as narrow as its name suggested, lined with warehouses and lopsided wooden buildings. At the moment it was deserted; even the drunks staggering home from the Grapes up the road had found somewhere to collapse for the night. Cillian liked Limehouse, liked the feeling of being on the edge of the world, where ships left each day for unimaginably far ports. That the area was a sailor’s haunt, and consequently full of gambling hells, opium dens, and brothels, didn’t hurt either. It was easy to lose yourself in a place like this. He didn’t even mind the smell of it—smoke and rope and tar, foreign spices mixed with the dirty river-water smell of the Thames.

Looking up and down the empty street, he scrubbed the sleeve of his coat across his face, trying to rub away the ichor that stung and burned his skin. The cloth came away stained green and black. There was a cut on the back of his hand too, a nasty one. He could use a healing rune. One of Charlotte’s, preferably. She was particularly good at drawing iratzes.

A shape detached itself from the shadows and moved toward Cillian. He started forward, then paused. It wasn’t Jem, but rather a mundane policeman wearing a bell-shaped helmet, a heavy overcoat, and a puzzled expression. He stared at Cillian, or rather through Cillian. However accustomed Cillian had become to glamour, it was always strange to be looked through as if he weren’t there. Cillian was seized with the sudden urge to grab the policeman’s truncheon and watch while the man flapped around, trying to figure out where it had gone; but Jem had scolded him the few times he’d done that before, and while Cillian never really could understand Jem’s objections to the whole enterprise, it wasn’t worth making him upset.

With a shrug and a blink, the policeman moved past Cillian, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath about swearing off the gin before he truly started seeing things. Cillian stepped aside to let the man pass, then raised his voice to a shout.
 * Cillian Darcy: James Carstairs! Jem! Where are you, you disloyal bastard?

This time a faint reply answered him.
 * James Carstairs: Over here. Follow the witchlight.