One moment he's consumed by the intoxicating taste of fae blood, his veins singing with power. The next he's being gutted like a fish. Raymond cries out, more in surprise than pain although there's plenty of the latter, and he hisses in anger as Eames yanks him away from his neck. His hands grab at the stake, expression contorting as he pulls it out, his shirt turning red with dripping blood. His guards will take care of this, give him the time he needs to recover and roast this insolent fae on a spit.

But they don't. Instead one of them falls and it's Jean-Claude stepping up to shove him back, Raymond's face white with anger and shock as he meets the eyes of his subordinate.

"You fucking–"

As far as last words go, they're not the most elegant. But Raymond isn't given a chance to utter anything else, as Jean-Claude's blade swings and the last thing he sees is the flash of metal before it cuts clean through muscle, sinew and bone and the Duke of London Central's head says goodbye to his body.

And then all hell breaks loose.