Witchcraft

Then, slipping into the shadowy room, Kimberly darted to the left. She would weave a path through the tanks, using them for cover while she made her way toward the dimly lit stairs at the far end.
    Cavenaugh , help me. Hurry. For God's sake, hurry. Halfway toward her goal, unable to hear sounds of pursuit above the hum of the tanks, Kimberly's bare foot came down in a puddle of cold liquid. She gasped aloud and then immediately bit down on her lip, cursing silently. With any luck her pursuer hadn't heard her faint, startled exclamation. She felt her way along the darkest side of the room, staying behind the last row of tanks. While the sound of working machinery was a cover for her own progress, it also covered the approach of the creature in the robes.
    The room at the top of the stairs seemed miles away instead of only a few feet. She had to reach it. It was the tasting room, the last stop on a tour. In it lay a telephone. There was also a fire alarm, Kimberly recalled vaguely. She would break the glass cover on it. That should summon help in a hurry. But first she had to get through the jungle of tanks. Every soft sound behind her was a new source of terror.
    Kimberly kept glancing back over her shoulder, expecting to see the silver dagger plunging toward her at any second. Arriving at the last tank in the row, Kimberly eyed the stairs with trepidation. To reach them sh e would have to make a dash out into the open and the small light on the wall would illuminate her quite clearly. She had no reason to think that the door at the top would be locked, but if it were she would be trapped at the top of the stairs. Cavenaugh , where are you? I need you. There was no point delaying the inevitable. Her only chance was to reach the tasting room and barricade herself inside while she phoned for help. Collecting her skirts in one hand, Kimberly darted out from behind the shelter of the last tank and ran for the door at the top of the stairs. With the primitive instinct of the hunted, she knew it was too late. There wasn't going to be enough time. The creature was behind her. He must have guessed her goal. Kimberly's hands were on the doorknob, twisting frantically when she glanced over her shoulder and saw him. The dagger was in his fist as the man in the robes raced toward her down the center aisle between the tanks. He was only a few paces behind. No time, she thought wildly as the door obediently opened inward. There was no time. Kimberly slammed the door behind her but her pursuer struck it with such force that it crashed back against the wall.
    She whirled and fled behind the ornate bar of the tasting room. The pale glow from the light at the top of the stairs filtered into the dark room, illuminating the rows of glasses and the neatly stored bottles of Cavenaugh wine. Without even thinking clearly about what she intended to do, Kimberly grabbed the nearest bottle. It didn't seem like much against a silver dagger but it was all that was available. Grasping the neck of the bottle as though it were a club she swung the end against the highly polished edge of the bar. Then she wondered half hysterically if this sort of thing only worked in vintage westerns.
    Glass shattered. Wine gushed to the floor, spilling over her bare feet.
    Kimberly was left holding a jagged, crystal blade. At the open end of the bar the hooded figure halted, silver dagger raised. He was only steps away and for the first time Kimberly could see the dark gleam of humanity beneath the shrouding cowl. The dim light glinted off the broken wine bottle in her hand as she held it in front of her.
    " Cavenaugh will kill you if you so much as touch me," she bit out. "Your friend Cavenaugh can go to hell." The voice was low and harsh and it had the sound of city streets in it. It didn't sound at all supernatural or sepulchral. She was facing a street punk, not a warlock, Kimberly thought wildly. "He'll see you there first. I can promise you that much."
    "I'll worry about him later. You're my job for tonight." He rushed her then, holding the dagger now like a fighting blade, not a sacrificial one. Coming in low and fast, the man in the robe covered the few steps separating him from his victim with a frightening ferocity. " Cavenaugh !" Kimberly screamed the name as she tried to sidestep the attacker's rush. There was so little room to maneuver here behind the bar. But the punk must have had some respect for the jagged bottle in her hand because when she