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The Sum Of Your Flesh  Table of Contents   Chapter One   Chapter Two   Chapter Three   Chapter Four   Chapter Five   Chapter Six   Chapter Seven   Chapter Eight   Chapter Nine   Chapter Ten   Chapter Eleven   Ship’s Log   Chapter Twelve   Chapter Thirteen   Chapter Fourteen   Chapter Fifteen   Chapter Sixteen   Chapter Seventeen   Chapter Eighteen   Chapter Nineteen   Chapter Twenty   Chapter Twenty-One   Chapter Twenty-Two   Chapter Twenty-Three   Chapter Twenty-Four   Chapter Twenty-Five   Chapter Twenty-Six   Chapter Twenty-Seven   Chapter Twenty-Eight   Chapter Twenty-Nine   Chapter Thirty   Chapter Thirty-One   Chapter Thirty-Two   Chapter Thirty-Three   Chapter Thirty-Four   Chapter Thirty-Five   Ship’s Log   Chapter Thirty-Six   Chapter Thirty-Seven   Chapter Thirty-Eight   Chapter Thirty-Nine   Chapter Forty   Chapter Forty-One    Chapter Forty-Two    Chapter Forty-Three   Chapter Forty-Four   Chapter Forty-Five   Chapter Forty-Six   Chapter Forty-Seven   Chapter Forty-Eight   Chapter Forty-Nine   Chapter Fifty   Chapter Fifty-One   Chapter Fifty-Two   Chapter Fifty-Three   Chapter Fifty-Four   Chapter Fifty-Five   Chapter Fifty-Six   Chapter Fifty-Seven   Epilogue   Other Books By This Author  The Making of Gabriel Davenport A Shining in the Shadows The Purity of Crimson (The Gabriel Davenport series) The Ruin of Delicate Things The House of Little Bones  Find out more about Beverley’s work at beverleylee.com     Published by Ink Raven Press Copyright © 2023 Beverley Lee  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.  ISBN - 13 978-0-9935490-6-9  Cover design by  ELDERLEMON DESIGN  Interior design by   PLATFORM HOUSE PUBLISHING     For those who play in the sandbox of words. Dream on.  There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Hamlet (1.5.167-8)   Chapter One  The train sped deep into the November night, slicing through the fog-shrouded bleakness like a scythe. Condensation ran down the windows, and the occasional lonely light swept past in the hungry dark. Inside, people stood, rammed up against each other, every precious inch of space a luxury for whoever managed to grab it. Haven sat next to the aisle, his holdall stuffed under his seat with his jacket. He tried not to think about what might be on the grimy floor, and for the third time in his journey he wondered if he had made the right decision. He didn’t like crowds, even though his line of work—if you could call it that—frequently put him amongst a throng of gyrating bodies. That was a necessary evil. This was simply his own decision. The train lurched slightly as it changed tracks, and the man standing in the aisle next to him reeled. His bag slipped from his shoulder and the corner caught Haven across the cheek. ‘I am so sorry,’ the man began, but when his gaze fell upon Haven, his words came to an abrupt stop. Haven saw the usual prejudice shadow in the man’s eyes, saw the intolerance behind it. It happened a lot. ‘Not a problem,’ Haven said, his voice emotionless. The man looked away quickly. For someone who would have much rather blended in, Haven Ford stuck out like a street mutt at Crufts. He was tall but had mastered the ability to fold his limbs into cramped spaces, much like the one he was in now. The voicemail had come just as he was about to go out of the door for the evening, which was probably why the man stared when Haven’s black, heavily made-up eyes met his. Haven could work a mean winged eyeliner. Or maybe it was the barbed wire ink that crawled across his throat, barely visible above his skull-print bandana. Or his dark hair, which he wore long. Tonight it was loosely braided over one shoulder. Yes, of all the people in the carriage that night, Haven would be the one people remembered if questioned. He took his phone from his jacket pocket and listened to the voicemail again.  I need you to help him, Ven. That name had knocked all the air from his lungs. No one else but Sebastian ever called him that. I can’t do it anymore. I’m so fucking sorry. Here the message paused, and Haven could hear hitched breathing in the gap. Remember I told you about Rafferty? Of course you do, you never forget anything. A small laugh. Please help him. And if you can’t you’ll know what to do. Don’t think badly of me. I need to go now. You were always my place to hide.  That was it, the message ended. Haven had replayed it a dozen times already. He hadn’t heard from Sebastian in months—How many? Four, five?—and Haven had almost got to thinking that he had smoothed it all out with his weird family, that things were finally working out for him. And now this, right out of the blue. Haven didn’t like it. He didn’t like the note of desperation he heard in the spaces between the words. Which is why he’d shoved a few things into a bag and left the house, his steps not leading him into the city, where the rain shone like glass on the roads and pavements, but to the railway station. He had first met Sebastian in a small bookshop, the kind that had