Total abstinence is so excellent a thing that it cannot be carried to too great an extent. In my passion for it I even carry it so far as to totally abstain from total abstinence itself.
- Mark Twain, autograph inscription in album to Mrs. Rutherford B. Hayes , June 11, 1881

Ivory Tower

Prologue: A Noble Experiment Gone Sour

The alley was dark and cold, as most alleys are wont to be on a September evening in New York City. Unlike nearby alleyways, however, this one was clean, clear, and had music drifting through. A single door broke the monotony of brick and mortar, and it was through this door that the music emerged, the tones of a well-played saxophone drifting and dancing through the moonlit alley.

The clicking of heels quickly dominated the passageway as a well-dressed couple weaved unsteadily down towards the heavy door. They chatted and laughed quietly until they arrived at the door, which they stopped before. The man straightened his jacket and put on a serious face, causing the young lady accompanying him to break down in a fit of giggles. Smiling, he knocked on the steel-and-oaken door once, paused a moment, and then knocked three more times.

A slot in the door opened up, and twin brown eyes peered suspiciously out into the alley. Looking first to the man, then to his still-giggling companion, the eyes narrowed for a moment before widening in recognition. The door opened, and a booming voice announced, "Welcome back to the Ivory Tower, Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald."

The shady alley was briefly awash with both brilliant light and the sounds of a grand party. The couple slid past the massive man in charge of the door, exchanging greetings as they passed. A short cheer went up as the famous writer and his wife quickly took their place as the life of the party.

Hours passed with the clinking of glasses and the exchange of good stories and good drink. One particular guest, a seedy-looking man in a brown suit, continuously tried to attract the interest of the head waitress. When he reached out and grabbed her arm in an attempt to make her pay attention, the doorman appeared out of nowhere to hoist him by the scruff of his neck. Walking the rowdy guest along the rapidly-clearing floor, the ambulatory mountain opened the door and unceremoniously chucked the miscreant into the alleyway.

"Third time making trouble this week, Mr. Sayre." rumbled the doorman. His eyes took in the entire alley as he stepped back and slowly closed the door. "I'm sorry, but you're not welcome in the Tower for the rest of the month."

Charlie Sayre straightened his brown suit and jelly-legged his way down the shadowy alleyway, muttering about the unfairness of the world. He gestured wildly to himself as he walked from alley to alley, seeming to argue with no one. When he finally lost the argument, he glanced up to find himself totally lost. Looking around wildly, he saw nothing but warehouses as far as his bleary eyes could see.

"Well, Chuck, a fine mess you've landed yourse-" he cut himself off as he caught the sound of more voices on the wind. Edging closer toward those voices, he peered around a corner to a sickening sight.

Bodies and fragments of bodies lay strewn about the loading dock. Blood ran thick on the ground, visible in the light of several dropped lanterns. Chuck fought down the urge to vomit when he saw a hand, still clutching a revolver, laying not five feet in front of him. Motion caught his eye as several figures in gray trench-coats walked into the light, arguing amongst themselves.

"Why'd you almost let that one go, you buffoon?" snarled one. Its voice was guttural and odd, as if its jaw had been set wrong after a nasty break.

"I wouldn't have if any of you had looked up from your food! He was faster than he looked! Had some nice legs on him…" the "buffoon" chuckled darkly. "Went down real nice, at least, though the rest of him was tough to chew."

Chuck once again fought to keep control of his stomach. If his legs would only move, he'd be long gone and drinking this night down the nearest gutter! The sound of the warehouse door opening snatched his attention away from his leaden limbs, and he saw a man stumble backward out of the warehouse clawing at the ground to pull himself back.

"I told you everything! The other houses, the shipment schedule, everything! Now please…don't let 'em eat me! Don't kill me!" the terrified man pleaded with someone beyond Chuck's view. A low chuckle emanated from the warehouse, and someone stepped forth.

Chuck's fear-fogged brain had conjured images of two-ton bruisers and tall-thin killers emerging from the building, probably still licking bloody knives or cracking massive knuckles. So when his eyes landed on the object of so much dread, he at first couldn't comprehend that this short, fat man wearing a brown bowler hat was the perpetrator of so much violence.

"I suppose you've been of great assistance to me, Johnny. So, I won't be killing you after all." The fat figure raised his right hand, and Johnny stiffened before his own hand slid across the ground to seize a fallen gun. Raising it slowly, Johnny pointed the gun first at his tormentor before it began its agonizing trek toward his own face.

Chuck watched as the now-weeping man put the muzzle of the Chicago typewriter into his own mouth. Terror ripped a shrill scream from his throat as he watched the headless corpse fall to the ground.

The man in the bowler hat sighed before gesturing again with his right hand. Chuck felt his legs, formerly unable to even twitch, begin walking him up to this foul magician. He began to scream before his mouth suddenly closed, locking shut against his will. Finally, he stood in the middle of the loading dock, arms pinned to his side, unable to move or speak. Tipping his hat down, the fat man turned to the trench-coated figures.

"Make sure you clean up this last mess, boyos. We've got at least three more sites to hit tonight. And get that booze on our truck when you're done." He moved off, pausing to gesture at the crates by the warehouse.

Unable to move anything but his eyes, Chuck's last view was of an inhuman face with an impossibly-stretched jaw darting toward him. And then…oblivion.

A/N

Whew, that was not as scary as I wrote it when we first ran through it. Although, it probably should have been, in retrospect. Anyway, welcome to the Dresden-verse in 1926 New York. Please feel free to shoot me questions, comments, or concerns via PM or the review option. I won't tell you everything, but there will always be details I can't cover in-story, and I'd be happy to share.

We've just met the antagonists, so we'll introduce the heroes next chapter. Feel free to guess at what the three of them will be.