Read The Sowing (The Torch Keeper) for Free Online Page B

grip the icy handle. Maybe it’s locked. Maybe the decision to confront whatever’s inside will be taken out of my hands after all—
    CLICK!
    The door opens with a drawn-out creak that chisels up my spine with ice picks.
    I pause at the threshold, taking in the neat rows of storage cabinets and banks of computer monitors, all dark except for one, flickering in a far corner and creating shadows that crawl across the room.
    I can sense it. There’s someone else in here. I can hear the shallow rasps of breathing intermingled with the low hum of the equipment. And they’re right on the other side of that working monitor.
    I peer around the edge of the workstation. The only sound I can hear now is my own heart thudding in my ears.
    And that’s when something grabs my foot.
    It’s a man wearing surgical scrubs, maybe in his late thirties, early forties—hard to tell in this light. His short hair is plastered against an ashen face. A hypodermic needle juts from one of his arms. His eyes are glazed with a milky film.
    I hunch down and cradle his head in my palm. His skin broils under my touch. “Don’t worry. I’m going to get help—”
    Both sets of his fingers dig into my arm. “There’s no time. The virus … it’s too … you … have … to … stop … ” He gasps for air.
    “Stop what ? Who did this to you?”
    His rasps turn into a wet gurgle. His nails claw at my suit. Those eggshell eyes roll back into his skull. Then one last breath wheezes from deep in his throat and he slumps over. Silent. Still.
    I choke back a flash of the past … it’s the same thing that happened to Digory. The memory of him lying there in my arms, saying our goodbyes.
    This is not some random coincidence. There has to be a connection.
    I lunge for the monitor, hoping against hope that I’ll be able test my theory. The terminal is still logged onto the central system. Whoever jabbed the med tech must have snuck up on him while he was entering data, which now gives me access to some of the Establishment’s secrets.
    My fingers fly over the keyboard, accessing menus, sub menus. But it all might as well be in another language. Proj ects and names that mean nothing to me. If only I had enough time. There’s a trove of information here that could help me strike strategically at the Establishment’s weakest links, as opposed to the random targets I’ve selected up until now. When I get to an alphabetized list, I begin to scroll down to search for intel about the virus, past the A s, B s, C s, further and further down the list, my eyes flitting back and forth between the screen and my holotracker, hoping I have enough time to find what I’m looking for and escape before I’m discovered or the building self-destructs.
    I’m at the S s. Only a few more to go …
    Two words stop me cold.
    Spark, Cole.
    My heart surges. All thoughts of the virus are ripped away. As much as I’m thrilled by the prospect of maybe learning my brother’s whereabouts, seeing his name in stark bold-face in an Establishment roster feels like a knife in the gut.
    I press the tips of my fingers against the keys, which for some reason feel more resistant to the touch. I press harder and highlight the entry before hitting “enter.”
    I hold my breath. The screen goes dark. For a second, I think the connection has been severed.
    An image of Cole fades into view, accompanied by a block of text. Key words jump out at me. Brother recruited. Orphaned.
    Every muscle in my body tenses. He’s not an orphan. He has me .
    I continue skimming, hoping to find some information on how he’s doing, why he’s in the medical research database. And that’s when I see it. Almost near the end. Highlighted in red.
    Scheduled for U.I.P. on 12-24.
    That’s less than a week away. What the hell does it mean?
    The last line in the entry says: Currently under the tutelage of the Priory.
    The Priory—the guardians of the Establishment’s mandated state religion. The ultimate