I swiped my bloody finger over the sharp edge and swung the hoe in a wide, vicious circle, then released it straight at the Drae. His eyes widened, and my jaw dropped as the tool careened toward him. Irrik raised his arm to protect his head and the blade sliced into his forearm. “Mistress Moons.” I covered my mouth with my hands, and the hoe dropped to the dirt with a thud. Irrik ran his fingertips over the deep gash. Black blood dripped down his arm. “Did you . . . just attack me with a garden hoe?” I was a fool. Irrik was bad, but Jotun was worse. If Irrik died . . . I rushed to him, crying
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