Book Review: Meant to be Immortal by Lynsay Sands

Mac Argeneau knows all too well: immortals can be killed. Not with holy water or silver crosses, but by decapitation or being set on fire. So when Mac’s house bursts into flames—with him inside—he’s sure it was no accident. But who would want to kill a scientist specializing in hematology? There is a silver lining: a blonde investigator appears on the scene and sparks feelings in him that have been dormant for centuries.

CJ Cummings is in town on a special investigation, but she’s been waylaid by the local police to deal with this arson case. The biggest mystery is how this sexy scientist with silvery blue eyes has emerged from a blazing inferno without a burn mark on him. He’s clearly hiding something. Sure, she’d love to see him without his lab coat, but she’s got a job to do—despite his insistence that he needs a bodyguard and…he wants her.

But when a second attempt on their lives puts CJ in harm’s way, it’s Mac who will do anything to safeguard the woman who’s destined to be his life mate.

Meant to be Immortal by Lynsay Sands

I’ve been reading this series since I was a freshman in high school and sometimes the many storylines blend together. So many characters, so many plot lines, so many family connections. It can be a lot.

But this return to the world of the Argeneau family made me happy. I love how there wasn’t the instant need to turn the mortal, as there are in so many other books. Due to that, you really got to see the characters interact with each other outside of bumping uglies constantly – instead of feeling like it is out of their control or that they had no choice. I also believed this made the characters stronger.

However, I didn’t like how he seemed incapable of doing anything on his own. He can’t get her to like him, he can’t take care of himself, he can’t figure out how to stick by her side, and he couldn’t figure out ways to win her over without the help of the others. Several times, while reading, I thought ‘where is the depth?’ and ‘is he just a pretty face? Why would she even want to be with him?’ I was waiting for him to take the reins but there were so many other characters moving in to take care of things for him that he never got the chance.

So, while I really enjoyed the book, I thought that the romance part could be stronger. If you’ve read this series, you’ll know that the stories heavily rely on life mate sex, chemistry, and danger. And on all counts, this book lacked the usual ‘oomph that her books normally do. The danger felt flippant and at one point, and this won’t ruin it, I thought ‘why doesn’t he just control him!’

One of the oddest things, and I’m not sure if it’s just me, that comes to mind is if there’s a ghostwriter for this series now.

It’s 34 books in. Maybe she’s bored? Maybe she’s ready to move on? I mean, I know this series is a cash cow but 34 books is a LOT. And while she’s been working on her highlander books (unrelated), I do often wonder if these last few books have been “phoned in”. I also feel the same way about “Mile High With A Vampire” (the next book in the series), but you’ll hear more about that when I write its review.

That being said, I’m glad that I have this novel. I’ll continue to read the series until it ends, and I still would love to meet the author one day. She’s inspired me as a writer ever since I was a teeny weeny baby author. I’ve daydreamed about being a paranormal romance writer and while these last few books have missed the mark, I still look up to her.

Good Readdance,
Jade

Did You Get Enough to Eat?

I slide my finger between bone and gristle. Moving it back and forth until I catch a thick piece of white meat and pull it from its hiding place. It shreds as I remove it, one part willing, one part fighting to get away. 

She’s happy, my daughter. Sitting strapped into the straight jacket that is her high chair, her feet kicking endlessly. Thwack, thwack, thwack, until I’m afraid there will be a bruise on the back of her heels. Happy pain. Joyous pain? 

I barely get enough meat on my own plate but I’m transferring, bit by bit, until she has a small white mound on her green plastic tray. Slivers of chicken, slivers of fat, slivers of nail grit that she laps up like a puppy, sucking on her finger tips and looking at me with those big brown eyes. 

I repeat the process with the rice, white but tinted yellow from the melted bliss of sugar and butter. Two large heaps, she likes rice. She pounds on it with her tiny fingers, smushing it down until it’s no longer plump and round. Flat little wafers, scattered.

Sometimes she throws it, white tufts raining down onto the stain streaked carpet that used to be cream-colored, long before she was alive.

I used to get angry. Stop that, stop that right now. We don’t throw rice. We eat rice. It reminds me of all those boisterous kids back when I worked at Pei Wei. How they would file into the booths and grind rice and Pad Thai into the cushions with grubby hands sticky from soy sauce.

Her daddy still does. Get angry, I mean. Stop giving her rice, she’s just going to throw it. But we shouldn’t shy away from things we love just because they are difficult.

Next is broccoli. Tiny little trees, I tell her. Meant to make you strong. Bow your head and thank them. Thank you for your nourishment, I say. Because I’m no longer religious, but gratitude is needed, required, in my house. Sometimes I’ll catch her whispering to her food, and I wonder.

Green is everywhere. On the tray, on her hands, captured on the ends of her curls because she’s piled broccoli leaves onto the crown of her head. I think, wow, she’s beautiful. I also think she’s going to hate me when I wash that out later. 

My own tray is only sparsely so, green having diminished with every transfer. Just enough bought to feed the three of us, just enough bought to balance the budget. It fluctuates, both. Going from here to there. I tell myself that I’m creating a better foodship. That I’m happiest when my stomach isn’t stuffed so full I can barely breathe. When that ache in my chest is gone. When I’m not sitting in front of the toilet, or on the toilet, praying for death. 

She crushes a broccoli head into a mound of previously smashed rice. It blends, whacked once, twice, three times between fingers modeled after her daddy’s hands. I meet her eyes and there it is. That look. That big, brown-eyed look of joy.

I know where she got it from. This…excitability. This innate pleasure for odd things. That toothy grin broken up by a cheek full of chowed meat. Me. I’m that way. Despite the ache in the joint of my thumb, still trying to wiggle loose the last bits of chicken meat. Still trying to feed my daughter all of me. 

I grin back, how can I not? When she’s giving me black girl joy. I raise my hand, the last shred of white at the tips of my fingers, dripping juice down onto her tray, wetting the dried rice. Her mouth is full but in she shoves it, finding space for chicken, and love, and determination, and growth, and gratitude. 

Finally….Degree Acquired!

Here we are, my college graduation. A day I’ve looked forward to my entire life. 

As a kid, I dreamed of a life spent in libraries and bookstores. I hoped to become a writer and a professor and a lawyer. That last one is thanks to John Grisham. I didn’t know the major detour my life would take:

Only applying to two schools because I was afraid I wouldn’t get in anywhere else. 

My parents convincing me to study architecture because “writers don’t make any money”.

Having to withdraw from the University of Kansas because I didn’t have enough money to pay tuition.

Moving across the country.

Meeting my guy only months after arriving in the new state.

Discovering Valencia College, and its cheaper tuition, and the direct connect program to the University of Central Florida.

Attending UCF and falling in love with the campus and enjoying my professors.

Having a baby with my guy.

Getting accepted at USF for graduate school to further my focus on creative nonfiction writing. 

.

There are so many factors that go into the success of a goal. Short term goals can turn into long term goals overnight. My six year goal to graduate from university with my Masters in Architecture turned into a ten year goal to study English and Creative Writing.

A part of me laughs now. Thinking back to those nights I spent writing when I was supposed to be doing homework for architecture. How I would tell my on campus writing group how I wanted to become an author and they would say “why are you studying this, then?” How I told my story to a girl at a cafe and she said “omg, like…you could write a book about this”. 

I also think about the late nights. The hours spent writing essays while taking care of the baby, and making journals for my shop. The arguments about money; the tears about money. The imposter syndrome (which is a term I hate). The professors who sent me emails saying they believed in me. The day I gave birth to Naomi and took exams while still in the hospital (something I will always brag about). The ups and downs of Covid and virtual school. The people I’ve met and the connections I’ve made. 

So many things have happened since I began this journey, and my heart is full now. I have a long while to go before I finish my schooling. Three years in my masters program and possibly five to seven years with my PhD but I’m excited about it. When I was a kid, I often told people that I’d go to school forever if I could. That’s still true.

I’ve always loved school, loved learning new things, and loved reading. That has never gone away and I hope it never will. Most people are discouraging and somber when I tell them what I want to do after I finish but it’s alright. It’s not just about the end goal. It’s about the journal. Spending my entire life on scholarship and writing has always been my dream. My success is measured by a lifetime of progression. 

In other words, I am already successful. And isn’t that beautiful.

See ya,
Jade