Nylon Angel Read Online Free

you get hungry, Mei will dial in something for you.’
    I grinned to myself all the way to Jamon’s. Somehow I didn’t think Dark would have much of an appetite.
     
    Jamon’s gleaming mahogany table was set with silver service when I got there, ludicrous amongst the chipped plaster walls and dirty low archways. It should have been in a mansion somewhere in Vivacity, where the ceilings reached over ten feet and the guard dogs passed for bears. Instead it crouched uncertainly in Jamon’s villa, covered in white napkins and a deluge of candles. One of his many affectations - Gothic meets tacky plastic.
    Not that I don’t like nice things! But I call it like I see it. No matter who Jamon thought he was, he lived in a rundown warren of villas built on poisonous earth. A real French-polished table didn’t change it.
    Then again, maybe I was jealous?
    Four guests clustered at the other end of the room emanating the stench of shared chemicals. I heaped confidence into my step and strode toward them. As the faces turned, though, I almost lost it in surprise.
    Jamon had two of his bitterest enemies in one room. A small one at that. And where were their bodyguards? I wondered.
    ‘My dear, you are late.’ Jamon had his snake smile on, the one that made me nauseous. ‘Stellar you know, of course.’
    He slid his hand in underneath my coat between my shoulder blades, his fingernails stabbing into my skin.
    I stared venomously across at a blue-haired bimbo. Stellar the bodyshop bitch! Jamon’s boy/girl.
    ‘Let me introduce you to the others,’ he continued. ‘Topaz Mueno.’
    Mueno, The Slag’s main mover, bowed slightly and combed his plump fingers through his thigh-length hair. Tiny lights glimmered between its silken strands, like a Christmas tree. Heavy perfumes masked his body odour. Another soft, sweaty man. And vain. I summed him in that moment. Sometimes you can pick people’s weaknesses in that first instance of meeting - before acquaintance tarnishes your judgement.
    The Slag lay in the western quarter of The Tert, Plastique to the south, and Torley’s on the north side. The Slag’s western boundary was the poisonous Filder river where mud and garbage piled along the banks - someone’s poor attempt to stay the inevitable landslides. Heavy metal slag.
    ‘Road Tedder.’
    Tedder I knew better. He wrangled constantly with Doll Feast for control of Plastique’s lucrative businesses, the bodyshops, hardware and tek. His deviousness drove Doll to distraction. She had him watched twenty-four hours of the day and still he kept his advantage - and his secrets.
    Rumours say he murdered his first wife and ate her. Good hunting rule, I guess - eat what you kill.
    Tedder lived in the ’burbs back then.
    My favourite arms dealer, Raul Minoj, ran the knife edge between Doll and Tedder, though I suspected at times he hung more heavily over to Road’s side.
    ‘And of course . . . Io Lang.’
    An unremarkable looking man offered his hand in greeting. It was cold and I caught a whiff of something . . . astringent, like antiseptic.
    ‘Just “Lang”,’ he corrected pleasantly.
    A huge spice worm of fear bucked in my gut. This man I only knew by reputation.
    Lang ran the dirty heart of The Tert, a place called Dis - some said Dis harboured the root of all The Tert’s industries, but I couldn’t see it myself. No transport went that far in. No people ever came out. If you really needed to hide from the Militia it was the place to go, even if they dropped a bomb and flattened The Tert to get at you. Rumour had it that Dis went far enough underground to hit lava; or hell; whichever came first. The real crazies lived there, self-sufficient and secluded, a world within our world.
    ‘And now, let’s be seated for dinner.’
    Let’s be seated?? Jamon really was trying to impress! In fact he seemed unusually excited about something.
    ‘Parrish, you will attend Lang. Stellar . . . Señor Mueno.’ He seated himself alongside