As if being a high school student isn’t already hard enough, Bobby Hawthorne and his best friend, Angelina Dellapicallo, struggle to understand the emerging secrets of witchcraft and magic – secrets strictly guarded by Bobby’s overprotective mother and her friends. The unexpected appearance of his spirited grandfather, though, sets in motion a series of events that sweep the young teens down a dangerous path, one inhabited by an ancient evil that threatens not only Bobby and Angelina but their whole community of witches as well.
Pixies can’t stop the hellhounds . . . but they have sounded the alarm . . . and the magic users must respond . . .
RJ Reviews – This is a great, fun read that puts a very American spin on the story of witches living among us in the real world, blending Texan culture and Native American mythology together into something unique and enjoyable. If you’re a fan of fast-paced, YA stories, then you need to give Son of a Kitchen Witch a read!” 



Tim Hemlin has taught middle school English Language Arts in the Houston area for over 20 years and now puts his master’s degree in counseling to work as a high school counselor in the Fort Bend Independent School District. Besides running marathons, Hemlin enjoys cheering on his favorite sports teams—the Patriots, the Red Sox and the Cowboys. He currently lives with his family outside Houston, Texas.
Son of a Kitchen Witch is Hemlin’s seventh full-length novel and is informed by the decades he has spent as an educator in Houston-area public schools. Set in suburban-Houston, Son of a Kitchen Witch is a fast-paced urban fantasy about the teenage son of a witch and how he navigates the perilous terrain of young love, high school drama, and being hunted by a pack of hellhounds.
Tim Hemlin’s other works include the Houston-based Neil Marshall Mystery series and “The Wastelanders,” a dystopian-clifi novel about a futuristic world devoid of water.


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Now, my mother has the original green thumb. She could grow a rose bush in the middle of Death Valley. No lie. She gives Jax all the credit but honestly, it’s not all him. No one would ever guess that in back of Hawthorne’s around the corner of the delivery entrance is this amazing herb garden. The best word to describe it is verdant—lush, and leafy and green. Incredible for such a small space. There are Roma tomatoes, basil, chives, tarragon, oregano, lemon grass, and as the old song goes, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. There are also your less conventional plants such as comfrey, skullcap, belladonna, dock and yarrow. The less enlightened consider some of these weeds. The healers know different since the right combination for a poultice can be very powerful. There are others, too, but I can’t keep it straight.
I led Angelina over to the herb garden. Sure enough, my mother was bent over her plants like some champion horticulturist examining each individual leaf of, say, the marjoram. However, as we got close I noticed something hovering in front of her and I thought, oh no, this is going to freak Angelina out. I assumed it was Jax then realized it wasn’t Jax, not that it mattered. No, it mattered. Had it been Jax he wouldn’t have been so sloppy.
At any rate, I stopped and abruptly turned, ready to guide Angelina away, but it was too late. She already had her hand over her mouth and was staring with eyes as big as saucers.
It wasn’t because my mother was singing to the plants. My mother believes in the magic of music, which is why it’s hard for her to listen to our heavy metal Sinatra. No, Angelina saw the hovering, too.
Jax appeared and ushered the other pixie off in a flash.
“Oh, a butterfly,” I said kind of lamely.
My mother doesn’t usually get caught unaware. She has a pretty good sense of what’s going on around her ninety-nine percent of the time. Once “in a blue moon, though, she gets surprised, and today was that blue moon. First The Bad Apple and now this.
“No, a hummingbird,” she said and quickly stood so she partially blocked our view of the garden. Like that mattered at this point.
Angelina didn’t buy it from either one of us. “I saw a face.”
“Isn’t that a line from a Beatles song?”
Without hesitation she whipped her hand sideways and slapped me in the gut. “Hummingbirds don’t have faces,” Angelina said. “And neither do butterflies.”
“Oh dear,” my mother said. “I wonder if Mickey put pot leaves in the oregano again. I’d better have Manuel check.”
“I am not on drugs, Mrs. H.”
I thought she was going to stomp her foot, but apparently she was still too shell-shocked.
“What I saw was like a little person with wings,” Angelina added. “A fairy or pixie or something.” Then another thought hit her. “That wasn’t an obnoxious bug in the restaurant, was it? It was an aggravated sprite.”
The gig was up. . . . Angelina had just seen her first pixie.


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