“Oh,” Dante said, suspecting what was coming.
“I can see her while we’re here,” Mary said and he could hear the smile in her voice at the thought, and then she added, “I haven’t see her since Christmas. Both of my kids and their families flew down to Texas for Christmas this year. I rented a house by the RV camp and we all stayed there for two weeks, enjoying the beach and visiting. It was lovely and I was thinking of detouring this way to visit them on the way home, but I—”
“Mary,” he interrupted softly.
She paused and went still, and then her tone was wary when she said, “What?”
Dante suspected he’d given away something with his tone, perhaps pity or regret. He was feeling both right now. But it had to be said. “Mary, you cannot see your daughter.”
Now she went stiff. “What do you mean? Of course I can.”
Her tone was brusque and short. She was not going to take this easily, he thought unhappily, and withdrew his arms from around her to grasp her shoulders and turn her to face him. Meeting her gaze, he asked solemnly, “How will you explain the changes you have gone through? Your new youthful appearance? The new silver tint to your eye color?”
Mary glared at him resentfully, obviously not appreciating the question, but said, “Well, I’ll just explain about immortals and—”
“You cannot tell her about us,” he interrupted firmly. “Keeping our existence from the rest of world is a necessity. It is how we have survived so long as a people. If mortals knew we existed, fear alone would make them hunt us down and—”
“You told me,” Mary interrupted almost accusingly.
“Yes, but you are my life mate,” Dante pointed out solemnly. “I hoped to turn you. If the situation had arisen where you refused to be my life mate, I would have had to let Lucian wipe your mind of all memory of me and everything I told you.”
“He can do that?” she asked with alarm.
“We can do that,” Dante said gently. “Including you. You are one of us now, Mary.”
She frowned slightly, and then shook her head. “Well, that’s all right, and I can still tell her. I want to turn her. I want to turn her husband and children too, and my son and his—”
“You cannot,” Dante interrupted and hated himself for having to do so. He was quite sure if their places were reversed, he would wish to do the same with his family. However, it just wasn’t possible. “Mary, each of us is allowed only one turn. It is necessary,” he added firmly. “If every turn, turned every loved one, we would soon outstrip mortals in number.”
“So?” she snapped impatiently.
“So whom would we feed on?” Dante asked practically and saw the revulsion that immediately crossed her face. “I am sorry, but that is reality. Your reality now.”
Mary swallowed and shook her head, but then said, “Fine. But I can turn one?”
“Each immortal can turn one individual in their life,” he agreed quietly, already knowing where this was going. “They usually save it for their life mate.”
“You’re my life mate, though,” she pointed out. “So I want to turn my daughter.”
“It is your choice,” he said mildly. “However, you have to gain her permission first, and she then would have to leave her husband and children behind.”
“She can turn her husband,” Mary said at once, and then added, “And he can use his one turn for his oldest daughter, who can use her turn on her sister, who can turn my son, her uncle, who can turn his wife, who can turn their son.” She smiled triumphantly. “And then we can all be immortal.”
“What if your daughter’s husband is not her life mate?” he pointed out.
“They’re married,” she said with a laugh.
“That does not mean they are life mates,” Dante said solemnly. “And if he is not, life together would be unbearable.”
“They love each other and live together now,” Mary pointed out. “They would be fine.”
“They may be fine living together as mortals, but that would not be the case if they were immortals and not life mates,” he assured her. “It is difficult to live with someone when you can hear their every thought.”
“But if they were both immortal—”
“Then they would both hear every thought the other had about them,” Dante said solemnly.