They said killing ripped the soul apart.
Karkaroff watched blood trickle from the corner of the dead Muggle's mouth, sweating under his black robes, wand quivering in his grasp. If he watched that one thin red line, and that alone, he could drown in it: the animal thrill of the pack-hunt with the Marked, the raw taste of power and hate and defiance in his mouth as they rained Unforgivables on the night's prey, spilling dirty blood mysteriously as red as their own. Always, always watch the blood, Karkaroff told himself.
Otherwise, he risked glimpsing their wide, white, screaming eyes.