Chapter 7: The First and Final Feast

The alcove opened before them like a mouth, its walls pulsing with the same organic rhythm as the rest of the chapel. As they descended into the darkness, the golden light from the Lincoln faded behind them, replaced by a different kind of illumination—a phosphorescent glow that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves, casting everything in sickly green hues.

The air grew thicker with each step, humid and warm, carrying scents that made Elara's stomach clench and saliva flood her mouth despite her revulsion. It was the smell of a kitchen during holiday preparations, of meat slowly roasting, of family gathered around a table laden with abundance. But underneath those comforting associations lurked something else—something primal and raw that spoke to parts of her brain she'd never acknowledged.

"Not much farther now," the Patriarch said, his voice strained with effort. Each step seemed to cost him more than the last, and she could hear his breathing becoming increasingly labored. "The sacred chamber has been prepared for this moment for decades."

The passage opened into a circular room whose dimensions seemed to shift whenever she wasn't looking directly at the walls. Niches carved into the living stone held what looked like candles, but the flames burned without wicks, casting dancing shadows that moved independently of the light sources.

And there, in the center of the chamber, was her father.

Not the composite entity that had been speaking to her, not the ancient consciousness wearing his face, but the actual physical remains of the man who had raised her. He lay on what appeared to be an altar of the same bone-white material as the chapel's ribs, his body partially preserved but clearly dying. His eyes—still recognizably his own—tracked her movement as she approached.

"Hello, baby girl," he whispered, and this time it was purely his voice, weak and strained but unmistakably him. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry for all of this."

The Patriarch—the entity—circled the altar with increasingly unsteady steps. "The vessel is failing," he explained, his borrowed features flickering between her father's face and something else, something that hurt to look at directly. "The power I carry is too much for mortal flesh. It burns through bodies like acid through paper, consuming everything until only the essential essence remains."

Elara approached the altar cautiously, her heart breaking at the sight of her father's condition. His skin had the same waxy, translucent quality as the Patriarch's, but where the entity still maintained a facade of health, her father's body was clearly in the final stages of dissolution. She could see through his flesh in places, could glimpse the bones beneath.

"Dad?" she whispered, reaching out to touch his hand. His fingers were cold but still responsive, squeezing hers with what little strength remained.

"I tried to fight it," he said, his voice barely audible. "When your mother died, when I realized you'd be next, I tried to break the cycle. But the pact... the pact is stronger than any individual will. It calls, and we answer, generation after generation."

The entity that wore his features laughed, a sound like grinding bone. "He thought love could overcome centuries of tradition. He thought paternal affection could break bonds forged in blood and hunger. But the entity's will is absolute, its hunger eternal."

As if summoned by those words, something stirred in the darkness above them. Elara felt a presence pressing down like a physical weight, ancient beyond human comprehension and hungry with an appetite that had been growing for millennia. She could sense its satisfaction at her presence, its anticipation of the feast to come.

"You feel it, don't you?" the Patriarch asked, noting her reaction. "The entity that made the original pact, that has sustained our family's prosperity for so long. It feeds on the essence of the Harvest, but it requires a conscious vessel to interact with the physical world. That vessel must be renewed periodically, when the previous one becomes too corrupted to function."

Her father's grip on her hand tightened. "Elara, you have to understand—I never wanted this for you. I tried to keep you away, tried to break the pattern. But it found me anyway. It always finds us."

She looked down at him, seeing past the corruption to the man who had taught her to drive, who had sung her to sleep, who had been the only constant in her life after her mother's death. The love was still there, she realized, underneath the horror and the transformation. The entity could use his face, could speak with his voice, but it couldn't completely erase what he had been.

"The consumption must be willing," the Patriarch explained, moving closer to the altar. "The transfer of power requires acceptance, requires love to season the flesh and make it palatable. A Patriarch who dies in terror or hatred cannot nourish the next vessel properly."

Something was changing in the chamber. The phosphorescent glow was growing brighter, and she could feel the entity's presence pressing closer, eager for the culmination of another cycle. The walls themselves seemed to be breathing more rapidly, and the flames in the niches flickered with increasing intensity.

"I can feel it coming," her father whispered, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and resignation. "The final moment. The entity is preparing to abandon this shell and seek a new host. But first..."

"First, the Harvest must feed," the Patriarch finished, and now his voice was coming from everywhere at once—the walls, the flames, the very air around them. "The daughter must consume the father, must take his essence into herself and become the vessel for power beyond imagination."

The hunger hit her like a physical blow. Not her own hunger, but something inherited, something that had been dormant in her blood for generations and was now awakening in response to the entity's call. Her mouth flooded with saliva, and her stomach clenched with need that transcended rational thought.

"No," she said, backing away from the altar. "I won't do this. I won't become what you are."

But even as she spoke the words, she could feel her resolve crumbling. The scent of her father's flesh was growing stronger, more appetizing, and the inherited hunger was spreading through her system like wildfire. She could taste copper in her mouth, could feel her teeth changing, growing sharper.

"It's not a choice," the Patriarch said gently. "It never was. The pact was sealed with the first consumption, and every generation since has renewed it. You are what you are, Elara. You are what we made you to be."

Her father turned his head toward her, and she could see tears streaming down his ravaged cheeks. "I'm so sorry, baby girl. I love you so much. But this is what we are. This is what our family has always been."

The entity's presence was overwhelming now, pressing down on her consciousness like a tide of ancient hunger. She could feel it testing her defenses, probing her will, searching for the cracks through which it could pour its influence.

And she realized, with crystal clarity, that she was going to lose.

The hunger was too strong, the genetic programming too deeply ingrained. She had been shaped for this moment from birth, conditioned by lullabies and bedtime stories and family traditions that seemed innocent but were actually preparation for this ultimate act of consumption.

"That's right," the Patriarch whispered, his form beginning to dissolve as the entity prepared to abandon its current vessel. "Let it happen. Let the hunger guide you. Become what you were born to be."

Her father looked at her with eyes full of love and terrible understanding. "It's okay, sweetheart. It's going to be okay. We'll be together forever now. One big happy family."

The phosphorescent glow reached a crescendo, and the flames in the niches began to burn with colors that had no names. The entity's presence filled the chamber completely now, and Elara could feel it reaching for her, ready to pour itself into a new vessel the moment the consumption was complete.

She approached the altar on unsteady legs, driven by hunger that felt like gravity itself. Her father smiled at her approach, and she could see acceptance in his eyes, love that transcended the horror of what was about to happen.

"I love you, Dad," she whispered, leaning over his broken form.

"I love you too, baby girl," he replied. "Now come home."

The hunger roared through her like a living thing, and she descended toward his throat with teeth that were no longer entirely human. The last thing she heard before the feeding began was the sound of laughter from the chapel above—the skeletal congregation celebrating another successful harvest, another link in the chain that bound their family to something far older and hungrier than human love.

And in that moment, as her teeth found their mark and the essence of generations flowed into her, Elara Vance died.

What rose from the altar was something else entirely.

Something that wore her face but carried the weight of centuries, something that would drive the family Lincoln for decades to come, calling to daughters not yet born with a voice that promised love and belonging and the terrible joy of coming home.

The Matriarch had awakened.

The cycle continued.

And somewhere in the distance, she could already hear the faint sound of an engine starting, ready to carry the next generation toward their destiny on roads that existed between worlds.