Turned (Book 1 in the Vampire Journals) by Morgan Rice by Morgan Rice

Caitlin asked.
    “My viola teacher,” he answered. “He has season tickets. He couldn’t make it tonight, so he gave them to me. I hope it doesn’t take away from it that I didn’t pay for them myself,” he added.
    She looked at him, puzzled.
    “Our date,” he answered.
    “Of course not,” she said. “You brought me here. That’s all that matters. This is awesome.”
    Caitlin and Jonah were directed by another usher into a small door, which opened up right into the concert hall. They were up high, maybe 50 feet, and in their small box area there were only 10 or 15 seats. Their seats were right on the edge of the balcony, flush against the railing.
    Jonah opened the thick, plush chair for her, and she looked down at the massive crowd and at all of the performers. It was the classiest place she had ever been. She looked out at the sea of gray hair, and she felt 50 years too young to be here. But thrilled all the same.
    Jonah sat, and their elbows touched, and she felt a thrill at the warmth of his body beside her. As they settled in and sat there, waiting, she wanted to reach over and take his hand, and hold it in hers. But she didn’t want to risk being too bold. So she sat there, hoping that he would reach over and take hers. He didn’t make any move. It was early. And maybe he was shy.
    Instead, he pointed, leaning over the railing.
    “The best violinists are seated closest to the lip of the stage,” he said, pointing. “That woman there is one of the best in the world.”
    “Have you ever played here?” She asked.
    Jonah laughed. “I wish,” he said. “This hall is only 50 blocks away from us, but it might as well be a planet away in terms of talent. Maybe one day,” he added.
    She looked down at the stage, at the hundreds of performers tuning their instruments. They were all dressed in black tie, and they all seemed so serious, so focused. Against the back of the wall stood a huge choir.
    Suddenly, a young man, maybe 20, with long, flowing black hair, dressed in a tux, strutted proudly onto the stage. He cut right through the aisle of performers, heading for the center. As he did, the entire audience rose to its feet and applauded.
     “Who’s he?” Caitlin asked.
    He reached the center and bowed repeatedly, smiling. Even from up here, Caitlin see that he was startlingly attractive.
    “Sergei Rakov,” Jonah answered. “He’s one of the best vocalists in the world.”
    “But he seems so young.”
    “It’s not about age, but about talent,” Jonah answered. “There is talent, and then there is talent . To get that kind of talent, you need to be born with it—and you really need to practice. Not four hours a day, but eight hours a day. Every day. I’d do it if I could, but my dad won’t let me.”
    “Why not?”
    “He doesn’t want the viola to be the only thing in my life.”
    She could hear the disappointment in his voice.
    Finally, the applause began to die down.
    “They’re playing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony tonight,” Jonah said. “It’s probably his most famous piece. Have you heard it before?”
    Caitlin shook her head, feeling stupid. She’d had a classical music class back in ninth grade, but she’d barely listened to a word the teacher had said. She didn’t really get it, and they had just moved, and her mind had been somewhere else. Now she wished she would have listened.
    “It requires a huge orchestra,” he said, “and a huge chorus. It probably demands more performers on stage than just about any other piece of music. It’s exciting to watch. That’s why this place is so packed.”
    She surveyed the room. There were thousands of people there. And not an empty seat.
    “This symphony, it was Beethoven’s last. He was dying, and he knew it. He put it to music. It’s the sound of death coming.” He turned to her and grinned, apologetically. “Sorry to be so morbid.”
    “No, that’s OK,” she said, and meant it. She loved hearing him talk. She loved the