bianca's smile does not reach her eyes. it's an unkind one, sardonic. it's one she probably should do her best to wipe off of her face, well aware of daniel's houndish qualities. like a dog with a bone -- or better yet, one tied to a pole during a thunderstorm, a juicy t-bone steak held directly out of its reach. perfect quality for a journalist. even better quality for a vampire. if he gleans any sort of entry point to bianca, she doesn't believe he'd stop scratching at her defenses until he got whatever it is he wanted. he reminds bianca of a very annoying pomeranian, yapping at whomever would give him light of day. like a child abandoned in a park, crying out for its parent to come back. β yes. β she acknowledges, voice controlled. tight. β means i suggest you tread carefully. or, better yet, don't tread at all. β
she doesn't know much of who he was before all this, has never cared much to ask. bianca's no spy, despite a contentious association with the certain unnamed group that they share. daniel doesn't know much about her, either, she figures. bianca remembers the evident confusion radiating off of him the first time they met, introduced by a much too-social raglan james. she didn't need the ability to read minds to know he was wondering why she were there in the first place, why he needed yet another individual looming over his shoulder. it must be for lestat, bianca figures he rationalized. yes. there was no point in correcting, or altering this belief. besides, it's not wholly incorrect. bianca can double her time, eyeing both of them the way they want her to. the vampire lestat and the son of armand. loose cannons, the both of them. the leash around her throat is tight. β you want to interview me? β her tone is mocking, displaying the little respect she already held for his journalistic crusade. β why would you want to do that? is it boredom? or do you have so few volunteers, and you're realizing how thin your little documentary actually is? β