Valgerður Ósk

“Roses surrounded the raven, thorns wrapping around its talons. Runes and archaic symbols stretched along my forearms: Romanian, Sumerian, Gaelic. An amalgamation of all those who had come before me. Marks of alchemy, of fire and water, of silver and wind. They had been carved into me by my father over a period of years, the raven being the last. All except for the one on my chest above my heart. That’d been mine. My choice. It wasn’t magic, but it’d been for me.”
― T.J. Klune, Ravensong

“Wherever you are, that’s where my home is.”
― T.J. Klune, Ravensong

“We’re going after her, aren’t we? Eventually.” He wasn’t talking about Elijah. “Yeah. We are. You going to be okay with that?” He didn’t hesitate. “This is my home. This is my pack. I’ll do whatever it takes.” I reached up and squeezed the back of his neck. “We’re lucky to have you, Robbie. Even if you insist on wearing those fucking glasses.”
― T.J. Klune, Ravensong

“MARK REFUSED to leave my side. On the nights when I couldn’t stand the sight of another person, he would stay outside my door. Sometimes I would let him in. He would motion for me to turn around, facing away from him. I did. On those nights, the hard ones, I would hear the rustle of clothes being discarded. The snap and groan of muscle and bone. He would nuzzle my hand when I could turn back around. I would climb into bed, and he would jump up beside me, the bedframe groaning under the combined weight. He would curl around me, my head under his chin, his tail covering my legs. Those were the nights I slept the best.”
― T.J. Klune, Ravensong