Author's Note: About a year and a half ago, right after she finished her story Leitmotif, Iamphantomgirl sent me a few chapters for a new fanfic she was working on, this time a modern one. I loved it, but after a bit, she said she just didn't like writing modern stories and so it died. However, about six months ago, I decided to pick it up and finish it as a writing exercise. So with a nod and appreciation to Iamphantomgirl and to Erik for inspiration, I present Russian Lerouxlette.

Prologue

St. Petersburg, Russia - 1977

The colored tent sheltered him from the wind, but not the cold. Dark blue shadows became fragmented images, evolving into the shape of man and child, but the light brown, almost amber, eyes closed tightly at their laughter.

"Let them", he thought wearily. "Let them stare. It matters no more."

Wasn't this what he wanted, after all? To overcome the pain that the reaction to his horrid face inspired. His family had not wanted him, and indeed, no one else had either. The dark streets of forgotten cities had become stained with the blood of those who'd hurt him, as well as every place along the way to his destination. The night had become his dearest companion, as had the cold wind in this ancient country.

But even great magicians, hideous though they might be, needed food and clothing.

So he had come here and offered the only thing he possessed that would interest anyone. For thirty days he had willingly bound himself to the ropes inside the tent and allowed them to stare. With the trick of lighting, he actually appeared dead, which he far preferred to them thinking he was really alive. Better an animated corpse than a living dead thing.

It was only at the sudden bright flash of light did he react – violently. "No photographs!" Bhuir shouted, grabbing the camera and smashing it to the ground, even as Erik lunged forward, his bone white flesh glistening in the light, twisting at an unnatural angle to free himself. The sockets inside his shoulders spun round almost to the point of dislocation, then his entire body went limp, the ropes slipping from his wrists to his hands.

The crowd, which had previously been enthralled with the half naked 'living' corpse began to scream in terror. Erik carefully moved his shoulders back into place and stepped toward his employer.

"You said there would be no cameras," he said in a low, controlled tone. "You lied to Erik."

"Is broken, see?" Bhuir said fearfully, stomping on the lens. "You came to me. You wanted pay, I gave. No problems, see?"

Erik made a soft humming noise, and watched the showman's eyes become glazed. As the rest of the crowd screamed and ran, the photographer stepped forward, trying to retrieve his camera.

"What did you do?" the man demanded. "I could have made a fortune with those pictures!"

The humming abruptly stopped, and Erik tilted his head.

"I think not, Sir," he said quietly. "No one takes Erik's image..." He bent down, his adolescent death's head close to the frightened eyes of a balding English tourist. "...And lives to see another night," he added, sliding a coiled wire from his trousers. "Perhaps we shall see one another in Hell? Wait for me, Monsieur. I pray it won't be long for me now, that I can meet my maker."

"Only God creates," the man whispered, hypnotized by the magical voice.

"Take my image with you in death, and know the truth."

Erik released the pressure when the man lost consciousness, letting him live. Another's death would do nothing to assuage his pain. He dropped the unconscious man on the ground, and unbound his hands from the wire. As he straightened, the shadows in front of him moved, and an equally tall and thin figure broke away from the wall. Bhuir, seeing their previously unannounced visitor, promptly fled the tent.

"You promised," a cold voice said, cutting through his numbed mind. "It's taken me two years to find you and this is what is I find. You lied to me, Erik."

"Micheil." He stared at the older boy, immediately defensive. "It was not so long ago that you would have done the same."

"I am not talking about him," Micheil said contemptuously. "You are no better than a prostitute, allowing these people to pay for a glimpse of your face."

Erik grabbed his robe from near the makeshift stage, not seeing the thin white hand which pocketed the Polaroid photograph, revealing a misshapen face and amber eyes. "What are you doing here? Surely you haven't come to tell me our family wishes to welcome me back into their home."

"No." Micheil replied hesitantly. "Our mother is dead. The cancer finally killed her."

Micheil thought he saw something flicker briefly in Erik's golden eyes, but then it was gone. Perhaps it was only a trick of the light.

"What about your wife Anya? Why aren't you with your dearly beloved bride?" Erik turned back to look into his brother's long thin face, which was now pinched with anger.

"She's gone."

Erik merely nodded, as if it were to be expected, but he had not forgiven the other for abandoning him, and in a most childish way he never would. Micheil was his mirror in so many ways. A brother through blood and twisted fate. Maternal exposure to toxic chemicals during pregnancy had left Erik with a severe facial disfigurement. Micheil's problems were less obvious, and indeed, might not have been caused by the toxins at all. They were both unusually tall, narrowly built, and extremely violent.

"She was not supposed to question me," his brother said bitterly. "I knew what was possible, but she...she would not stop. She laughed. Laughed."

"So your wife left you because you failed to consummate the marriage? Did you beat her too?"

Erik heard Micheil's sharply drawn breath, and waited for him to strike. None came. When he finally glanced back at him, he found his brother's head hanging low, and his face full of shame.

"You don't understand what its like," he finally muttered. "Not for a few more years anyway. Enjoy your ignorance while you can, Erik. One day I may have to stop you from doing as I have most unfortunately done."

1990

Moscow, U.S.S.R.

Erik Sokolov (nee Martin) gasped loudly as his torturers finally brought his head up out of the water, sucking in air in loud, rasping breaths. He was suffering through his third day of torture under his KGB handlers. The first two days - beatings followed by electrical torture - had nearly killed him. However, unknown to the thugs trying to drown the information out of him now, Erik had become very adept as a child at holding his breath under water for inhumanly long periods of time, and over the years he had perfected the ability to still his heartbeat and breathing. His display of agony now was merely a ruse to fool his interrogators.

It had occurred to him, that while fraught with risks, faking his own death might be his way out of the sadistic organization which had employed him for the last half dozen years. Technically, he wasn't actually one of the KGB's official agents; he had done some free lance work for the organization while serving as a mercenary in Afghanistan. He had also done quite a bit of the same kind of work for their brothers in crime, the Russian Mafia. As the state deteriorated, so did the lines between the official and unofficial organizations, and Erik excelled at working both groups to his own advantage. It was in this way that he had justified his theft of the huge payoff to a high ranking KGB officer from one of the Mafia leaders. It was dirty money anyway. He had been caught trying to fence some of the stolen jewels. The fence was also in the Mafia's employ.

Each time they plunged him back into the water, screaming the same questions at him over and over - "Where is the money?", "Who helped you to betray us?" - Erik let his heart rate and breathing still even more. The main risk would come of course if they continued to hold him under water too long after he "appeared" to have drowned. He really would need to breathe. It was worth the risk he decided; they were going to kill him anyway.

Erik slowly brought himself fully back to consciousness when he felt his body hit the cold, steel examining table in the morgue located in a wing of KGB headquarters. He had been quite sure with his distinctive features, that he would be scheduled for an autopsy, one which would concentrate on his face. He lay on the ice cold table, using all of his skills to keep from shivering as the KGB's coroner entered the room. This would be his only chance, and dangerous as it was, he had to take it. The doctor had only just begun to stare down at him in horror when Erik struck. In the blink of an eye, Erik came off the table, grabbing the doctor by the throat and throwing him to the floor. It only took another moment for Erik to finish the job. He quickly removed the doctor's clothes and put them on, along with a surgical mask to cover what he could of his face. Thankfully, the clothes fit well enough for him to make his escape. Erik quickly laid the body back on the table – if anyone happened to look into the room, it would appear as if there was an autopsy in progress. It might buy him a little precious time.

Thankfully, he had been removed from the prison section of the Lubyanka when they had taken his body to the morgue. He only had to negotiate the labyrinthine halls of the massive building to make his escape. It was child's play for the agent who had been nicknamed the Ghost.