3.0 6
by Christina Lauren

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True love may mean certain death in a ghostly affair of risk and passion from New York Times bestselling duo Christina Lauren, authors of Beautiful Bastard. Tahereh Mafi, New York Times bestselling author of Shatter Me calls Sublime “a beautiful, haunting read.”

When Lucy walks out of a frozen forest, wearing only a

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True love may mean certain death in a ghostly affair of risk and passion from New York Times bestselling duo Christina Lauren, authors of Beautiful Bastard. Tahereh Mafi, New York Times bestselling author of Shatter Me calls Sublime “a beautiful, haunting read.”

When Lucy walks out of a frozen forest, wearing only a silk dress and sandals, she isn’t sure how she got there. But when she sees Colin, she knows for sure that she’s here for him.

Colin has never been captivated by a girl the way he is by Lucy. With each passing day their lives intertwine, and even as Lucy begins to remember more of her life—and her death—neither of them are willing to give up what they have, no matter how impossible it is. And when Colin finds a way to physically be with Lucy, taking himself to the brink of death where his reality and Lucy’s overlap, the joy of being together for those brief stolen moments drowns out everything in the outside world. But some lines weren’t meant to be crossed…

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Lucy can’t sleep, eat, or leave the grounds of Saint Osanna’s, a prep school set alongside a haunted lake and forest. She’s a Walker—the local term for ghosts—who has appeared on the school’s grounds 10 years after her murder. Lucy doesn’t know why she has reappeared, but she quickly senses that it has to do with Colin, a daredevil student who lost both parents when his mother drove the family off a bridge. Lucy and Colin have a special connection, and as they fall for each other, he learns that if he brings himself to the edge of death, they can be together for real. Lauren (a pseudonym for Christina Hobbes and Lauren Billings, coauthors of the Wild Seasons series for adults) tell Colin and Lucy’s story through their alternating points of view, but while glimpses into Lucy’s murder give the narrative a spark early on, there is little in the way of mystery, with only the romantic thread (and its inherent danger) pulling readers forward. Ages 14–up. Agent: Holly Root, Waxman Leavell Literary Agency. (Oct.)
Tahereh Mafi
"Sexy, scary, and creepy as hell, SUBLIME will both seduce you and send chills down your spine. A beautiful, haunting read."
Kami Garcia
"A romantic and unforgettable story of first love."
VOYA, October 2014 (Vol. 37, No. 4) - Sean Rapacki
Christina Lauren is the combined pen name of authors Christina Hobbs and Lauren Billings. Together they have crafted an update on the gothic romance. Supernaturally-tinged mystery? Check. Attractive protagonists drawn together by powerful forces? Check. Sex that is described in flowery, discreet terms, never graphically? You bet. If it were not for the occasional profanity or body piercing, readers would be forgiven for thinking this story was set in another century. Luckily, the swearing and lip rings do not seem out of place or forced into the tale to make the teen protagonists, Lucy and Colin, appear trendy. Everything fits well in this tale, and many of the additions to the classic gothic mold, like Colin’s love of extreme sport, are actually quite essential to the unfolding of the story and characters. Part ghost story, part mystery, and all romance, this title will likely fly off the shelves. The ending is so heavily foreshadowed that it would be a stretch to call it a twist, but it is so classically gothic as to be a delight to this reader. Needless to say, falling in love with somebody without a pulse seldom ends well for any of those involved. Reviewer: Sean Rapacki; Ages 15 to 18.
Kirkus Reviews
An orphaned adrenaline junkie falls for a dead girl, and the doomed, love-struck couple learns they can only truly "be together" (cough) in the realm between the living and the dead. Ghosts—known as Walkers—at St. Osanna's boarding school have been said to traverse the grounds. Colin, a handsome, popular student famous for daredevil stunts on his bike, has heard these musings, though he thinks them fiction—until he meets Lucy. From the moment that Lucy and Colin meet, their love is cemented, hard and fast. Although one is very much alive with a corporeal body and one isn't, teenage hormones still palpably buzz, and an almost tragic accident on a frozen lake becomes an opportunity for the pair to physically unite. After, Colin decides to willingly engage in near-death experiences to be with Lucy, but how far will he go to be with the girl—er, spirit?—that he loves? While Colin is handsome and Lucy may have been smart prior to her unfortunate demise, the two of them are completely one-dimensional in their love for each other; it's the only driving force for them. Readers have to be more than willing to suspend their disbelief and let themselves be pulled along by the unrelenting tide of swooning infatuation. However, the cringe-worthy ending will leave even the most uncompromising romantic grumbling. For die-hard fans of Bella and Edward only—pun very much intended. (Paranormal romance. 13 & up)
School Library Journal
Gr 9 Up—When she wakes up, covered with dust and no memory of her name, her past, or how she came to be on the cold grounds of an isolated boarding school, a ghostly girl knows that something is odd about her. After wandering into the school's dining hall, she locks eyes with the lanky and handsome Colin, and she knows that she came for him. Colin, too, is drawn to the mysterious girl and notices that other classmates do not seem to see her, not to mention her oddly pale skin and gray eyes. Ghostly girl, whose name we learn is Lucy, and Colin become entwined in the mystery of Lucy's tragic past and her oddly ethereal present. Once Colin discovers that only during near-death experiences can he really touch Lucy, he begins a dangerous round of nearly suicidal stunts that allow the two of them to really feel each other's skin. Authors Christina Hobbs and Lauren Billings (writing under a combined pseudonym) pull readers forward as they try to solve the mystery of Lucy's current and past existence. Excellent descriptions of the lonely Idaho boarding school, a lake in the wilderness, and intoxicating idylls on obsession carry teens through most of the narrative. However, the conclusion feels hastily contrived and ill-defined, which will leave readers more dissatisfied than sated.—Denise Schmidt, San Francisco Public Library

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Product Details

Simon & Schuster Books For Young Readers
Publication date:
Sales rank:
Product dimensions:
8.40(w) x 5.80(h) x 1.20(d)
Age Range:
14 Years

Related Subjects

Meet the Author

Christina Lauren is the combined pen name of long-time writing partners/besties/soulmates/brain-twins Christina Hobbs and Lauren Billings. The coauthor duo writes both Young Adult and Adult Fiction, and together have produced nine New York Times bestselling novels including Beautiful Bastard and Sweet Filthy Boy from Gallery Books. Their books have been translated into over twenty-three languages.

You can find them online at,, or on Twitter at @Lolashoes (Lauren), @seeCwrite (Christina), or follow @ChristinaLauren for official news.

Read an Excerpt


  • THE GIRL IS BENT INTO odd angles when she wakes. It doesn’t seem possible that she could have been sleeping here, alone on a dirt path, surrounded by leaves and grass and clouds. She feels like she might have fallen from the sky.

    She sits up, dusty and disoriented. Behind her, a narrow trail turns and disappears, crowded with trees flaming garishly with fall colors. In front of her is a lake. It is calm and blue, its surface rippling only at the edges where shallow water meets rock. On instinct, she crawls to it and peers in, feeling a tug of instinctive pity for the confused girl staring back at her.

    Only when she stands does she see the hulking buildings looming at the perimeter of the park. Made of gray stone, they stand tall over the tips of fiery red trees, staring down at where she’s landed. The buildings strike her as both welcoming and threatening, as if she’s at that in-between stage of awake and asleep when it’s possible for dreams and reality to coexist.

    Instead of being afraid, she feels a surge of excitement tear through her. Excitement, like the sound of a gunshot to a sprinter.


    She slips down the trail and across the dirt road to where the sidewalk abruptly begins. She doesn’t remember putting on the silk dress she’s wearing, printed with a delicate floral calico and falling in wispy folds to her knees. She stares at her unfamiliar feet, wrapped in stiff new sandals. Although she isn’t cold, uniformed students walk past, wrapped in thick wool, navy and gray. Personality lies in the small additions: boots, earrings, the flash of a red scarf. But few bother to notice the wisp of a girl shuffling and hunched over, fighting against the weight of the wind.

    The smell of damp earth is familiar, as is the way the stone buildings capture the echoes of the quad and hold them tight, making time slow down and conversations last longer. From the way the wind whips all around her, and from her precious new memory of the trees in the woods, she also knows that it’s autumn.

    But nothing looks like it did yesterday. And yesterday, it was spring.

    •  •  •

    An archway looms ahead, adorned with tarnished green-blue copper letters that seem to be written from the same ink as the sky.


    GRADES K–12

    EST. 1814

    Beneath it, a broad iron sign lurches in the wind:

    And whosoever shall offend one of these little ones that believe in me, it is better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he were cast into the sea.

    Mark 9:42

    The campus is larger than she expects, but somehow she knows where to look—right, not left—to find the grouping of smaller brick buildings and, in the distance, a wood cabin. She moves forward with a different kind of excitement now, like walking into a warm house knowing what’s for dinner. The familiar kind. Except she has no idea where she is.

    Or who.

    Of the four main buildings, she chooses the one on the left, bordering the wilderness. The steps are crowded with students, but even so, no one helps her with the door, which seems intent on pushing her back outside with its own weight. The handle is leaden and dull in her grip, and beside it, her skin seems to shimmer.

    “Close the door,” someone calls. “It’s freezing!”

    The girl ducks into the entryway, breaking her attention from her own stardust skin. The air inside is warm and carries the familiar smell of bacon and coffee beans. She hovers near the door, but nobody looks up. It’s as if she’s any other student walking into a crowd; life keeps moving in the roaring dining hall, and in a blurred frenzy, she stands perfectly still. She’s not invisible—she can see her reflection in the window to her right—but she might as well be.

    Finally, she makes her way through a maze of tables and chairs to an old woman with a clipboard who stands at the doorway to the kitchen. She’s ticking items off a list, her pen pressing and flicking in perfect, practiced check marks. A single question perches on the girl’s tongue and sticks there, unmoving, while she waits for the old woman to notice her.

    The girl is afraid to speak. She doesn’t even know herself, let alone how to ask the one question she needs answered. Glancing down, she sees that her skin glows faintly under the honeyed light fixture, and for the first time it occurs to her to worry that she doesn’t look entirely . . . normal. What if she opens her mouth and dissolves into a flock of ravens? What if she’s lost her words along with her past?

    Get it together.

    “Excuse me,” she says once, and then louder.

    The woman looks up, clearly surprised to find a stranger standing so close. She seems a mixture of confused and, eventually, uneasy as she takes in the dusty dress, the hair tangled with leaves. Her eyes scan the girl’s face, searching as if a name perches near the back of her mind. “Are you . . . ? Can I help you?”

    The girl wants to ask, Do you know me? Instead, she says, “What day is it?”

    The woman’s eyebrows move closer together as she looks the girl over. It wasn’t the right question somehow, but she answers anyway: “It’s Tuesday.”

    “But which Tuesday?”

    Pointing to a calendar behind her, the woman says, “Tuesday, October fourth.”

    Only now does the girl realize that knowing the date doesn’t help much, because although those numbers feel unfamiliar and wrong, she doesn’t know what year it should be. The girl steps back, mumbling her thanks, and reclaims her place against the wall. She feels glued to this building, as if it’s where she’ll be found.

    “It’s you,” someone will say. “You’re back. You’re back.”

    •  •  •

    But no one says that. The dining hall clears out over the next hour until only a group of giggling teenage girls remains seated at a round table in the corner. Now the girl is positive something is wrong: Not once do they look her way. Even in her moth-eaten memories she knows how quickly teenage eyes seek out anyone different.

    From the kitchen, a boy emerges, pulling a red apron over his neck and tying it as he walks. Wild, dark curls fall into his eyes, and he flips them away with an unconscious shake of his head.

    In that moment, her silent heart twists beneath the empty walls of her chest. And she realizes, in the absence of hunger or thirst, discomfort or cold, this is the first physical sensation she’s had since waking under a sky full of falling leaves.

    Her eyes move over every part of him, her lungs greedy for breath she doesn’t remember needing before now. He’s tall and lanky, managing somehow to look broad. His teeth are white but the slightest bit crooked. A small silver ring curves around the center of his full bottom lip, and her fingers burn with the need to reach out and touch it. His nose has been broken at least once. But he’s perfect. And something about the light in his eyes when he looks up makes her ache to share herself with him. But share what? Her mind? Her body? How can she share things she doesn’t know?

    When he approaches the other table, the schoolgirls stop talking and watch him, eyes full of anticipation.

    “Hey.” He greets them with a wave. “Grabbing a late breakfast?”

    A blond girl with a strip of garish pink in her hair leans forward and slowly tugs his apron string loose. “Just came by to have something sweet.”

    The boy grins, but it’s a patient grin—flexed jaw, smile climbing only partway up his face—and he steps out of her grip, motioning to the buffet against the far wall. “Go grab whatever you want. I need to start clearing it out soon.”

    “Jay said you guys did some pretty crazy stunts in the quarry yesterday,” she says.

    “Yeah.” He nods in a slow, easy movement and pushes a handful of wavy hair off his forehead. “We set up some jumps. It was pretty sick.” A short pause and then: “You guys might want to grab some food real quick. Kitchen closed five minutes ago.”

    Out of instinct, the girl glances to the kitchen and sees the old woman standing in the doorway and watching the boy. The woman blinks over to her then, studying with eyes both wary and unblinking; the girl is the first to look away.

    “Can’t you sit and hang out for a few?” Pink-Haired Girl asks, her voice and lips heavy with a pout.

    “Sorry, Amanda, I have calc over in Henley. Just helping Dot finish up in the kitchen.”

    He’s fascinating to watch: his unhurried smile, the solid curve of his shoulders and the comfortable way he slips his hands in his pockets and rocks on the balls of his feet. It’s easy to tell why the schoolgirls want him to stay.

    But then he turns, blinking away from the table of his peers to the girl sitting alone, watching him. She can actually see the pulse in his neck begin to pound, and it seems to echo inside her own throat.

    And he sees her, bare legs and arms, wearing a spring dress in October.

    “You here for breakfast?” he asks. His voice vibrates through her. “Last call . . .”

    Her mouth opens again, and what spills forward isn’t what she expects; nor does she dissolve into a flock of ravens. “I think I’m here for you.”

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