Page 74 of Claim of Blood (Blood Bound #1)
Behind the Black Glass: The Night Court Refuses to Blink
By Rae Linhart, Senior Investigative Reporter
PORTE DU C?UR, MO — If you try to schedule an interview with Ilona Erdei, emissary of the PDC Night Court, you should be prepared to wait. And then, once you finally get in, you should be prepared for her to tell you nothing.
I waited three weeks.
What I got was twenty-six minutes in a soundproof conference room inside a Nocturne-owned building downtown. She didn’t shake my hand. She didn’t offer coffee. She did not, at any point, smile.
“I’m not here for PR,” she said, before I’d even asked a question. “I’m here to keep the peace.”
It’s been over a month since the supernatural world was thrust into the public eye, and Missouri’s own quiet metropolis of shadows—Porte du C?ur—has become ground zero for vampire diplomacy.
At the center of it is Nocturne Intelligence Services, a centuries-old private company now under federal scrutiny, and the Night Court: the ruling vampire authority operating behind layers of enchanted doors and silence.
At the center of that, is Adam Matthews. Otherwise known as the Second Vampire Ever Created. Ever.
“So, it’s true?” I asked.
Ilona blinked, slowly. “What is?”
“That Adam Matthews is... the second vampire in history.”
“No comment.”
I tried another route: “Are there concerns about Nocturne’s role now that it’s public knowledge the company has operated across national borders, in intelligence and cybersecurity, for centuries—without oversight?”
Ilona leaned back in her chair. “Nocturne is a privately held company. Our customers trust us. We have no board. No shareholders. We answer only to our founder.”
She paused. “It turns out,” she added, with a tone so dry it could’ve powdered silver, “that people trust an intelligence agency more once they learn we’ve been keeping secrets for centuries. Consistency builds confidence.”
Since the revelation, Nocturne has reportedly increased its workforce by 23%, with new hires ranging from cybersecurity specialists to what company insiders describe as "diplomatic liaisons." The company's stock price—privately held but tracked by financial analysts—has surged 200%.
Federal agents have been spotted at Nocturne's downtown offices three times this week, though company representatives describe the visits as "routine compliance meetings.
" The Department of Homeland Security's hastily formed Office of Supernatural Affairs, scrambling to develop protocols for entities that predate the Constitution, has yet to comment on any ongoing investigations.
Asked about Adam’s sudden visibility in international affairs, Ilona declined to elaborate. “Mr. Matthews has no comment at this time.”
When I pressed about internal vampire politics—claims of supernatural hierarchies, bloodline control, and magic-linked obedience—Ilona cut me off.
“That’s not your concern,” she said flatly. “It hasn’t been for millennia.”
Then came the question I expected to end the interview: Leo von Rothenburg.
The name drew the only flicker of visible emotion I saw in twenty-six minutes.
“Leo von Rothenburg,” Ilona said evenly, “is within the Night Court by choice. He is healthy. He is safe. And contrary to what his family has been telling every network willing to air their vitriol, he is not being held.”
The von Rothenburg family, prominent in what sources describe as “supernatural hunting circles,” has appeared on three major networks this week.
They claim Leo was “seduced and mentally compromised” by vampire influence.
When asked for evidence, family spokesperson Stefan von Rothenburg cited “classified hunter protocols” and declined to elaborate.
“Then why can’t we interview him?” I asked.
Ilona’s smile was faint and cold. “Because Leo doesn’t like vultures.”
The comment did not go over well with several press outlets, and by midweek, “#FreeLeo” was trending on multiple platforms, despite zero evidence he’s being detained.
Outside the Night Court’s walls, opinion is more fractured.
Local witch covens and shapeshifter packs have maintained strict silence, though sources suggest emergency meetings have been held across the supernatural community. “Everyone’s watching to see how the vampires handle this,” said one anonymous supernatural resident. “If they fall, we all fall.”
I spoke with former residents of Innsbrook, the once-affluent neighborhood now home to the Court’s central estate. After the reveal, most humans vacated in a slow, fearful trickle. But some, like 83-year-old Donald Whitaker, stayed.
“They never bothered me,” Whitaker told me from his porch, coffee in hand and hunting dog snoring at his feet. “Hell, they paid their HOA dues early. Didn’t throw wild parties. Now everyone’s run off, acting like the devil himself moved in.”
Do you feel unsafe now? I asked.
Whitaker squinted at me. “I feel unsafe when people like you start knocking on doors with a tablet and a camera.”
Then Whitaker told me to get off his porch.
Not everyone shares Whitaker’s calm. Sarah Chen, who moved her family to Kansas City last month, told me by phone: “How do you sleep at night knowing there are creatures that could drain you dry living next door? How do you trust your own government when they’ve been hiding this for God knows how long? ”
As I left the Nocturne building, I noticed something the federal agents probably missed: every entrance was equipped with new security scanners. When I asked building security about them, I was told they were “standard upgrades.”
In the new world we’re all learning to navigate, “standard” doesn’t mean what it used to.