“Partners,” I repeated, my voice deadly calm. “Interesting word choice. Partners typically have equity stakes, don’t they? Decision-making authority?”
Jólnir’s smile faltered slightly.
“Because what I see here,” I continued, sliding another document across the table, “is a workforce generating billions in goodwill value annually while receiving compensation that wouldn’t meet minimum wage standards in any civilized jurisdiction.”
“Magic isn’t bound by human labor laws,” one of the elf advisors interjected, his voice prissy with superiority.
“Ah, but here’s where it gets interesting.” I pulled out my trump card—a thick folder bound with ribbon that would’ve had Martha Stewart salivating. “TheSupernatural Labor Relations Act of 1723. Ratified by the Council of Mystical Beings and signed into law by every major magical entity, including—” I flipped to a particular page, “—one Odin Alfodr, current alias—Santa Claus.”
The silence that followed was deafening. I could practically hear the wheels turning in Santa’s head as he tried to figure out how a human lawyer had gotten her hands on magical legislation supposedly beyond mortal reach.
He stood. “An interesting exhibit. However…” He flicked his fingers, and the pages of the portfolio whipped open, stopping on a single clause outlined in golden light. “Clause 2.3.469—‘No human person shall intervene in, obstruct, modify, or otherwise interfere with the adjudication, enforcement, or administration of matters governed by the Magical Legal Code, it being acknowledged that such matters fall exclusively within the jurisdiction of the Council of Mystical Beings and are beyond the scope of mortal jurisprudence.’”
He steepled his fingers in front of a wide grin. “So, I’m afraid, Miss Hartwell, I’m going to need to have you escorted off the premises, as your being here violates?—”
“Actually,” I interrupted. Men—always trying to talk over me. But I wasn’t having it, and if he thought I hadn’t done my homework, he was dead wrong. I was Sylvie Marie Hartwell, Esquire, and I wasn’t about to lose.
I held out my hand, and Aleksi produced another scroll from his bag. I unrolled it across the table. “TheAct for Human Rights and Involvement of 1878, ratified by the same council. Clause 1.123—‘Humans who have established a permanent and magical bond with members of recognized magical species shall be deemed Bonded Affiliates and accorded the rights and protections of magical beings under this Act, provided that such bond remains intact and has been physically sealed.’”
One of Santa’s associates had stood—presumably to escort me out—but I shot him a look darker than coal, and he sat back down immediately. “So as you can see, I have every right to be here, petitioning the council for the rights of my bonded mates.”
I pulled my blonde hair to the side, revealing the three mate marks that now graced the back of my neck. The frost patterns swirled together—because, like us, we no longer had to stand alone.
Santa’s face reddened as his gaze flicked between me and my mates. “You’ve bonded with them?”
“Yes. So as I was saying before”—I flipped the original document back to the pertinent page—“the moment you established a formal employment relationship with sentient magical beings, you became subject to supernatural labor law. And according to Section 15.3 of the Act, any being providing services essential to a magical operation has the right to collective bargaining representation and full benefits as befits an employee, including?—”
Santa cut me off, his façade cracking—the jovial mask slipping to reveal something far crueler underneath. “You have no idea what you’re meddling with, little human. The Christmas operation is bigger than your mortal concepts of fairness. The magic that powers Christmas itself flows through these agreements.”
He rose to match my stance. “Break them, and you risk destroying the wonder and joy that children worldwide depend on.”
It was a masterful play—appeal to the greater good, make us seem selfish for demanding basic rights. I felt my mates waver slightly beside me, the weight of centuries of conditioning pressing down on them.
But I hadn’t spent years in Manhattan boardrooms to be intimidated by a magical corporate bully.
“Funny thing about that argument,” I said, my voice clear and resolute. “I’ve heard it before—from factory owners who claimed workers demanding safety regulations would destroy American industry. From tech companies insisting that fair usage and licensing would stifle innovation. From every boss who ever tried to convince their workforce that asking for dignity was somehow selfish.”
I walked around the table, my heels clicking against the floor. “But you know what I’ve learned in ten years of employment law? Companies with happy, fairly treated workers consistently outperform those that rely on exploitation. Funny how that works.”
The explosion of magical energy that followed should’ve been terrifying. The conference room filled with golden light as Santa’s true power manifested—ancient, vast, and utterly alien to human understanding. The windows rattled, the air seemed to thicken, and I felt the crushing weight of centuries pressing down on my mortal consciousness.
But instead of cowering, I smiled.
“Intimidation tactics,” I noted calmly, not moving an inch despite the power swirling around us. “Section 8.7 of theSupernatural Labor Relations Actspecifically prohibits the use of magical coercion during collective bargaining negotiations. Congratulations—you just committed a felony under supernatural law.”
The golden light flickered, uncertainty creeping into Santa’s expression.
I gestured to my mates, who stood with renewed confidence. “Kenai’s clan has been subjected to discriminatory assignment practices based on subspecies—a clear violation of equality provisions. Taimyr’s herd has been denied proper representation despite their numerical majority. And Aleksi’s people have been systematically excluded from decision-making processes that directly affect their working conditions.”
I paused, pulling out one final document. “But here’s my favorite discovery—theMystical Beings Pension Protection Act of 1901.” Setting the sheet on the table, I continued, “Guarantee of full pension benefits after ten years of employment, and access to the font of magic for life—regardless of employment status. Guess how many reindeer have ever been allowed to access their pensions?”
Santa’s face had gone from red to pale in seconds.
“Zero,” I answered my own question. “Because you’ve classified them as contractors rather than employees, despite the fact that they perform specialized, skilled labor under direct supervision for compensation. Which, coincidentally, is the exact legal definition of an employee under supernatural law.”
The room was silent except for the soft hum of magical energy slowly dissipating. Santa’s advisors looked like they wanted to disappear through the floor.
“So here’s what’s going to happen,” I declared, my voice carrying the full authority of someone who’d just demolished her opponent’s entire legal position, and just a little petty smugness. “You’re going to recognize the United Arctic Reindeer Clans as an official union. You’re going to negotiate in good faith on their demands for improved working conditions, fair compensation, and safety protocols. And you’re going to establish a pension fund for every reindeer who’s ever worked for this operation.”
