Three weeks later, Isobel sat perched on a fence watching the dust roll off the horizon. She was dressed in a tank top, overalls, and work boots, her hair in two tight French braids.

She had been there for a relatively short time, but she had already broken two fingers and had a nail go through her foot. Unfortunately, it seemed like imps had no concept of a tetanus shot. She had lost several inches of fat and put on a little muscle. Her skin was always red and angry from the black sun. She hated every minute of her existence on the farm, but much to her surprise the two imps that owned the place were not the ruthless slave drivers that Enki had promised. They were not cruel, just lazy and kind of stupid.

They were an older imp couple, Eustis and Beatrice, who didn't seem to really farm anything, but they had chores and would rather have Isobel do them than disrupt their constant TV watching.

Isobel jumped down from the fence, one of her broken fingers twinged as she did so. She picked up a basket that held three huge eggs. She was quite proud of those eggs. They had been laid by huge ostrich-like birds, if ostriches had fangs and evil dispositions. Isobel practically risked her life and was able to walk away with the prize.

As she went into the house she found the imp couple exactly where they were last time she saw them, exactly where they always were. Eustis sat in an old rocking chair with terribly stained pillows. He was reading a newspaper and would occasionally say something about a story he read to no one in particular. Isobel's brain drifted to the mornings when Alastor would muse over articles from the newspaper with her. With an angry huff, she pushed those thoughts away.

Beatrice sat on the couch watching some terrible game show. Every time a contestant missed a seemingly obvious answer, she would yell at the screen and threaten to throw the remote control.

"You know all that stuff is fake, right?" Isobel said resting the basket on the back of the couch.

"You hush up," Beatrice said in the defensive southern drawl. "Don't be ruining my program, now. You get the eggs?"

Isobel nodded and held up the basket. Beatrice came around the couch to collect it.

Eustis started to chuckle, "more calamity in the Pride Ring," with a mixture of amusement and disapproval.

"Oh, what is it this time?" Beatrice asked as she took the basket into the kitchen.

"Same old, same old. Some Overlord running amuck and causing havoc." He shook his head as he folded the paper over. Isobel could see the front page. The main headline read Another Day of Terror for the Pride Ring. A large black and white picture followed the headline.

Isobel couldn't quite make out what was going on in the picture. She peered at it wishing she could read a little, or maybe just see the picture clearly. She hoped everyone was ok. The paper suddenly dropped from her sight revealing Eustis' suspicious glare.

"What you looking at?"

Isobel shrugged, "nothing, just lost in thought, I guess. Don't really know what that's like, huh, Eustis?" He smirked at her and returned to the news.

"Are these all the eggs you got?" Beatrice called from the kitchen.

"Yeah, and I almost lost an eye getting those." Isobel said, leaning against the couch and crossing her arms.

"Well, this ain't goin' be enough. I need at least two more."

"That's not going to happen. So you're just going to have to deal. Why do you need so many anyway?"

"Because I am entering the best pie contest at the Harvest Moon Festival and I need the eggs for my custard, thank you very much."

"The what?"

Beatrice got an excited gleam in her eye. She often forgot how ignorant the new arrival was.

"Just one of the most fun events of the year. We go every year, there's games and entertainment, and I always win the best pie contest."

"Well, yee haw," Isobel said sardonically.

The newspaper lowered again and Eustis said, "and you will be going too. I'll be needing your help with them hogs, Izzy."

She bared her teeth. Isobel hated that infantile nickname they insisted on calling her.

"That's not my name," she growled. "You do realize I'm a captive here, right? The moment we get there I'm going to find a way to escape."

Both imps laughed.

"Good luck with that," Eustis chortled. "Where you going to go and with who?"

"It won't be that bad, sweetheart," Beatrice said, placing a tiny hand on Isobel's elbow. "You might have fun, and at the end of the night the Prince stands up and shows us the true harvest moon in the sky with all the stars. It's so pretty."

Isobel's eyebrows raised. Just then the TV caught Beatrice's attention. She squealed and ran for the remote, turning the volume up and smacking Eustis on the top of the head.

"Look! This is it," she exclaimed. A loud, garish commercial played announcing The First Annual Lust Gala and Spectacular, a televised event. A strange, little clown sang and danced across the screen. "Oh, I can't wait to watch it." Beatrice was positively giddy.

"You know something interesting about that show?" Isobel said wistfully. "I was supposed to perform at it."

The imps laughed uproariously.

"I'm serious," she protested. "Before I was dumped in this god forsaken place, I had a bit of a following as a singer in the Pride Ring."

"Sure you did, Izzy," Beatrice said as she handed her the basket. "More eggs."

With a sigh like that of an annoyed teenager, Isobel went to the door, kicked it open, and yell over her shoulder, "that's not my fucking name."

On the morning of the Harvest Festival, Eustis and Beatrice were so excited it was insufferable. They both insisted on talking Isobel's ear off the whole way there while still making her ride in the back with the animals. In more than one instance, she was tempted to throw herself under the wagon wheels. But she exercised her patience and waited for a lull in the conversation. After about the second hour of constant chatter, she got her chance.

They both had exhausted the topic of all the things a pumpkin could be baked into and took a breath. Isobel jumped at the silence before they could start up again with squashes or tomatoes, or some other farmy bullshit.

"So," she said as she stood on a pig creature and leaned over their seat. "How does the prince show everyone the harvest moon? I mean, does he, like, open a portal or something? How do you think he does that?"

"Never gave it much thought," Eustis said.

"Me either," Beatrice agreed. "It just doesn't seem that interesting, what them royals do."

Behind them Isobel made a massive eye roll. These two idiots could debate the superiority of pumpkin bread vs pumpkin tarts for an hour and a half, but portals to other worlds were somehow boring.

This was Enki's plan all along, she thought to herself. These two weren't slave drivers who would kill her with brute force. Instead she was going to die slowly from pure, unadulterated frustration and annoyance. That was, unless she could talk to this prince and convince him to help her.

Unfortunately, getting close to anyone other than a disgusting pig creature, proved rather difficult. Eustis and Beatrice tried their best to keep Isobel out of sight and away from the main crowd. They told her to be inconspicuous, but that was a rather impossible task. Though she was not a particularly tall woman, she still stood head and shoulders over most imps. Her height combined with her green eyes and the fact that she looked nothing like anybody else at this hootenanny was bound to bring some attention. At this point Isobel was used to it.

They gave her clear instructions that she was to stay with the livestock the entire time. However, true to her word, once Beatrice scampered off for her pie contest and Eustis found some other old, bloated men to have some long drawn-out inane conversation with, Isobel said, fuck this shit, and left her post at the pig sty. She waded through the sea of black and white striped horns and eventually found the main stage and pavilion. There, under a canopy sitting in a fancy chair and lavishly clothed in top hat and cloak was the biggest, fucking owl Isobel had ever seen.

He looked like a black barn owl with a white face and red, glowing eyes. Instead of wings, long delicate arms and hands crossed neatly in his lap. The length of his arms was only surpassed by that of his legs, which seem to go on forever. And as they announced him as Prince Stolas Ars Goetia, he stood, making sure to stoop so as not to hit his head on the canopy above. He stepped out and rose to his full height (He must have been ten feet!) and waved at the crowd in a sort of foppish way. The crowd responded with a lukewarm response that he didn't seem to really notice.

It was going to be tricky getting anywhere near him.

A jug band started to play on a stage adjacent to the royal pavilion and Isobel began to move through the crowd trying to inch her way closer to the prince. It was treacherous endeavoring to avoid small feet and tails as she continued to keep an eye on the Prince who sat complacently in the shade. She hadn't gotten very far when she felt a heel stamp down on her foot.

"What the fuck?" she yelped. Beatrice stood at her knee, a big blue ribbon pinned to her chest. Her tiny cowboy boot wearing feet smashed down. "What the hell is your problem?"

Isobel pulled herself free and limped a few steps.

"What are you doing here? You were supposed to watch the hogs."

"Yeah, but, uh, that was boring. I'm just seeing what the fuss is about, you know. Trying to have some fun, like you said."

"You are in big trouble, missy." Beatrice pointed a little, yet sharp finger up at her. "I'm going to have to give you more chores to do when we get home."

"What chores," Isobel fired back, getting louder with every word. "I already do every-fucking-thing!" To emphasize her point, Isobel flicked Beatrice off with her still broken middle finger.

Just then a screech of speaker feedback silenced the crowd. Isobel looked up, a part of her half expecting/hoping to see Alastor on stage. Instead an imp with a mop of white hair, ten gallon hat, and curly mustache holding an old diaphragm condenser microphone addressed the horde.

"Well, folks, I am sorry to say that ol' Huckabee will not be performing tonight." A disappointed groan escaped the masses. "I know, I know, but unfortunately, he came to an untimely end during the Greased Pig Melee."

A loud wave of boos followed the announcement. But above all of them a small southern lady waved her hands and shouted. It was Beatrice calling over the din and pointing at Isobel.

"Oh, Mr Wackford," she was screaming. "I've got a replacement right here!"

"What are you doing?" Isobel hissed trying to put a hand over her mouth. Not only did Beatrice dodge, but she was able to crawl up on Isobel's shoulders. From that vantage there was no way she could be overlooked by Wally Wackford.

He called out to Beatrice, "yes? The little lady riding on the strange animal."

"The fuck you call me?" Isobel said indignantly.

"I got an entertainer right here that can fill in," Beatrice continued to yell.

Wally Wackford waved an arm in delight. "Well, come on up then."

Isobel finally managed to grab Beatrice, lifting her off her back and bringing her face to face.

"Why are you doing this?"

Beatrice shrugged, smug, like she had caught Isobel in a trap.

"You said you were a singer, right?" She managed to wriggle out of Isobel's grasp and started pushing her toward the stage. "Let's see you in action, then."

It was just a ploy for Beatrice to embarrass her. She had fully expected Isobel to give up her bluff and go running back to the hog pen, but Isobel shuffled reluctantly to the stage. She was racking her brain for a song. What would this crowd want to hear? She didn't think she had much that would suit their tastes. Would they riot if she sang The Devil Went down to Georgia?

Only one song came to mind and she wasn't 100% sure if she knew all the words. As she climbed the stairs to the stage, she pulled out her phone and started searching. The crowd murmured around her, obviously confused by her appearance, and she could tell that the Prince, himself, was staring at her as she stepped up to the mic.