Ten feet above the ground, floating through the intersection like some bizarre migration of birds. Sydney held them there, rust-stained taxis and sleek black sedans with tinted windows, courier vans and a tour bus blaring the opening number of the latest Broadway hit. The cars around her, as one, lifted gracefully into the air. If there had been eyes somewhere above that rushing city that were able to watch, they would have seen her lips moving. Sydney walked to the center of the intersection and raised her arms like a conductor about to begin a symphony. Neither the cars nor their drivers seemed aware of her presence. Her lips, red as blood, quirked up at the corners, and Sydney stepped off the curb and into traffic. Her slate-grey eyes flicked up toward some unmarked window in one of the buildings scraping the sky, as if to be sure someone was watching. Late-summer heat stewed salt-sweat and heavy cologne together, mingling them with the sizzle rising from sidewalk food carts. The sun stark, the sky a harsh blue, cloudless and broken only by the glare of reflections. Stalking down Wall Street, the spire of Trinity Church rising before her, she slid among the suits and tourists like a secret, drawing no eyes, no shouted “hey, babys,” not even the casual jar of a shoulder bumped in a crowd. She looked like the kind of woman people would stop for, stare at, notice. Tall in her red-soled stilettos, black clothing that clung to her like smoke, red-tipped black hair sharp and angular around her face. The young woman cut through the crowded New York sidewalk like a knife.
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